


Murmurations: The Rise of Dee

by woollen_pharaohs



Series: Murmurations [2]
Category: Fargo (TV), It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Anal Sex, Animal Death, Blood, Blood and Gore, Bulimia, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Eating Disorders, Fanart, Gun Violence, Hand Jobs, Harm to Animals, M/M, Rough Sex, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, Vampire AU, minor original characters who continue the iasip traditional of having no names, sex scene in ch 30 my dudes, the slowest of slow burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-01-08 23:50:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 100,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12264585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woollen_pharaohs/pseuds/woollen_pharaohs
Summary: Part 2(previously Get Behind Me Satan)Dennis has been turned into a vampire against his will. He is on a mission to hunt down the bastard who did this to him and demand to know everything there is to know, including how to turn other people so that he can test the limits with Mac as his guinea pig. However, there is more going on in the world of vampires than Dennis expects. He discovers that it's not going to be easy to get what he wants, especially when his twin sister starts getting in his way.This fic follows directly on from'Murmurations: Dennis & Mac Die' (previously Bodies Lie and Tend to Break)You do not have to have seen Fargo (TV) to understand this ficbecause it is an entirely new plot, but it may help you understand the Fargo characters more if you have.





	1. Airspace (Third Eye, Red Eye)

**Author's Note:**

> hey hey, i'm back with three chapters out at once to get you back into it. Then i'll try to update regularly, or whenever i feel like it. Whichever comes first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: explicit description of bulimia

  

 

* * *

 

 

“There’s nothing like a good roast lamb,” Varga says to no one in particular.

Yuri looks up from his laptop to reply, “Plane food is disgusting.”

“It’s mushy,” Varga says, raising his fork with a lump of meat squashed onto it.

“Disgusting,” Yuri repeats, looking back at the small screen.

Varga swallows the food and feels the flavourless chunks fall into his empty stomach. He doesn’t wait until his mouth is clear before he starts talking again.

“Found anything yet?”

Meemo takes out one earbud and comments, “For an 800 year old vampire, you’re very impatient.”

Yuri nods, “These things take time.”

Varga shakes his head and cuts into a slab of brown mush which is _meant_ to be lamb but looks more like a lump of shit. Still, he’s eager to satisfy his urges with anything his flight has to offer. In any case, they’ll soon be landing on the private airstrip in Fargo, kudos to the Gerhardt family. Perhaps before they make their way to St. Cloud, Floyd and Otto will sit them down for one of their always memorable feasts. Meemo and Yuri might just understand why Varga bothers with consuming human food once they taste her exquisite three course meals.

“How about… now?” Varga prompts.

Yuri drags his eyes from the screen and glares at Varga.

“I would just like to know all the angles,” Varga shrugs, “Don’t want to step on too many toes and have a repeat of the mess we left in London, now do we, gentlemen?”

“No, we don’t,” Meemo agrees, with his earphones back in.

“You’re certain the Gerhardts have accepted our lump sum payment?” Varga questions Yuri.

Yuri rolls his eyes. “We wouldn’t be on this plane if they hadn’t.”

Varga grins around a mouthful of food. “Indeed. I _so_ wonder if they will use their newfound wealth to fund their war...”

“A war we will stay clear of, sir,” Meemo says a little too loudly.

“Undoubtedly,” Varga nods, “We will land, the Gerhardts will secure our safe passage, and we will begin building our empire in the humble city of St. Cloud. Perhaps not as ambitious as Khan or Stalin’s campaigns but _achievable_.”

“So long as there are no other vampires in residence,” Yuri replies, without taking his eyes off the screen.

“Well that’s your job to find out then, isn’t it, Yuri?” Varga says as he shovels a soft flap of lamb into his mouth. “I don’t want anyone in our way. Not like last time.”

“Yes, so leave me be.”

Varga sits back in his seat. He has almost finished his meal but can feel the food burning in his stomach. Looking down at the sludge before him doesn’t help him want to retain his meal. Must be the quality, but oh, has he _yearned_ for food. They’d only narrowly escaped, so he has to make do with whatever is offered. The food gurgles up his throat once again. He unbuckles himself from his seatbelt and stops just before the bathroom door.

“It’s just us now. We’re going to do this on our own and we’re going to do this right. Meemo, did you hear me? Take those headphones out.”

Both Meemo and Yuri reply flatly, “Yes master.”

“Wonderful,” Varga nods, satisfied.

Then he enters the loo and without a moment’s hesitation, he regurgitates his meal into the toilet bowl.


	2. Minnesota Correctional Facility - Oak Park Heights - Level 5 Maximum Security Prison

Lester was always fond of the Bemidji Lake view, season round. He only ever got to take a yacht out on it once last year. Pearl had always wanted to enrol him into sailing lessons since he refused to learn from Chazz, but he always had some kind of schedule clash.

_“Isn’t it funny, Lester, how work only wants you to put in extra hours when it’s time for your lessons? You realize the extra hours won’t cover the cost of the lessons, don’t you?”_

He never liked boating that much anyway. All of the rope tying and fishing expectations. No, no. He only took a boat out on the Bemidji Lake in summer because the strippers he’d brought with him from Minneapolis wanted to drink champagne over the water. He’d only had to tell Linda he was staying in the city for an extra day and that was that.

He smiles.

“What are you smiling about, cockhead?” An inmate across the hall leers at him.

Lester flinches and hangs his head, twiddling his thumbs in his lap.

Of course max doesn’t have a lake view. In all respects, this prison is worse than the Bemidji Jail. At least at Bemidji, he had his local name helping his reputation, even if he never did see Chazz face to face there. He knew his baby brother was roaming around there. Heard what the other inmates had snickered about the Nygaards. Well, he truly had the upper hand, didn’t he? It’s what you did out in the real world that defined your place in the prison hierarchy. Brother frames baby brother for murder of fat, annoying wife. Brother gets done for possession of illegal firearms anyway.

Well, Chazz is a lucky man considering that they never ran into each other. Lester didn’t get a black eye and split lip for nothing, would have scared the pants off Chazz if he'd seen his brother that way. Still, his reputation back home and his appearance now isn’t going to help him in max. There are people here who have done far worse than him and they aren’t afraid to threaten him. There’s no amount of life insurance pitching Lester can do formidable enough to warn off getting beat up, or worse, raped in the shower stalls. Even if he had the ability to run off violent threats off the top of his head, he certainly doesn’t have a menacing body. All he has is blood on his hands in an ocean of men who drink blood for breakfast and oh _god_ he’s going to die in here isn’t he? If only he hadn’t run, if only he’d made one good decision and stuck by Malvo, the one person who ever had any sense in this world. And now he’s dead too.


	3. Erstwhile (Perhaps vampires are a bit strong but...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warning: explicit description of violence, violence against animal - dog.

Mac wakes up with an uncanny craving for smoked ribs. He blinks through blurry vision, sweat caking his entire body like an extra layer of skin. The hot afternoon sun shines violently bright every time Mac thinks he’s going to be able to see anything out of his wet eyes, causing him to clench them shut again.

He can’t remember where he is… The last thing he remembers is something like a clip out of an action movie. Tires screeching, dust billowing, sirens whirring down an empty highway. He’d taken the car off road and watched cop cars rolling over each other in the rear view mirror, saw them explode in mushroom clouds on the horizon. It was totally awesome.

A faint memory lingers… Immense pain, like a ninja had skewered a katana into his stomach. Maybe he had exacerbated the pain of his growing sunburn in a dream, mistaking heat for impalement. A noise on his cell phone tells him that the battery is critically low. He blinks, following the sound and spots a vague blur of light fading to black again on the passenger seat. Somehow he has managed to smash the screen so well that an excessive amount of tiny shards sparkle over the whole seat.

A fly buzzes around his nose. He lifts a hand to swat it away, only in doing so he slaps the topside of his hand on a hard obstruction. He blinks sweat from his eyes and, with his knuckles smarting, he paws out to find the obstruction again. His fingers jolt on prickly barbed wire and graze against splintered wood. He squints for a while, waiting for the sweat to run out of his eyes until he can get a good look at what the hell is in front of him. Finally, the sun goes behind a cloud and he’s able to see a little better. He follows the barbed wire spiking along the wooden pole and traces the length until he sees it pressing against his own stomach.

His stomach feels empty and hollowed out but because he’s starving, not because of a pole skewered through his body. Still, the pole is pressed right against his skin. He shifts a little in his seat to see if it would hurt, but all he can feel is a light scrape of wood. He traces a finger around the end of the pole and feels a hole cut around it. Either he is in too much shock to realize that the pole actually _is_ impaled through him, or he’s somehow survived this freak accident like the immortal vampire that he surely is.

Mac stares at the pole for a moment, his mind racing with what this all equates to and what it will mean for him to be invincible, but is pulled out of his giddy reverie when his stomach rumbles.

Carefully he grabs hold of the pole and tries to push it away, but it’s harder than he thinks it’s going to be. The barbed wire is connected to a whole string of fencing which threads out through the windscreen in a tangled but taut mess, and in order for Mac to slither out of his seat, he has to apply a large amount of force against the pole. When he is able to slip out, the pole smacks the back of his seat and something falls out behind Mac as he stumbles onto the gravel. Rusty metal scrapes along the hood of Dee’s car as he turns around to see a part of the pole separated from the fencing cut into three neat parts. The first being the large pole attached to the string of fencing, the second being a hammered tip, and the third being a fraction so soaked with blood that Mac could barely tell it came from the same pole at all.

A white pickup truck appears on the crest of thin gravel road that Mac had decided to lose the cops on. He squats by the trunk of the car, careful not to touch the sun baked metal and squints at the oncoming vehicle which is more than likely a cop hot on Mac’s trail. Suddenly, there’s movement in the trunk, a violent rustle that makes the axis lean toward the trunk side of the car, then falls back again.

“Dude, stay still and shut up! There’s a cop com-”

Mac zips his lips the moment the pickup comes to a halt just before the crash. A man who looks like a total cowboy steps out of the car, puts his hands on his hips and whistles at the sight of the car crash. Mac waits by the trunk and watches the man peering into the car, then upon seeing no one, he steps down the ditch sloping off the gravel road. The cowboy pulls out a pair of gloves, puts them on and then wraps his hands around a fencing to yank the mess that’s obstructing the road. The tug causes the barbed wire to scratch along the hood of Dee’s car and the end pole flips up as the man yanks it out of the windscreen, placing a massive dent in the rim of where the glass used to be.

Dennis chooses that moment to kick around in the trunk, causing the car to lift onto the two back wheels for a split second before smashing on the gravel ground again. Mac hisses at his friend to stop, but the cowboy – or more likely undercover superpower cop – has already noticed, as has a dog tied up in the tray of the pickup. The dog starts barking wildly while the cowboy puts away his gloves and climbs back up the ditch to the road. The cowboy silences his dog, then slowly walks toward the back of the car. Mac ducks, his feet burning in his shoes and adrenalin taking over the minute the man gets close enough to leap at.

The cowboy lets out a surprised grunt as Mac throws himself at him, badass vampire lunging style. He goes for the man’s neck and bites it, but something isn’t right. His fangs aren’t popping out like Dennis’ do. Maybe he just doesn’t know how to activate them yet. Meanwhile, the Undercover Cop uses his Super Cowboy Strength to push Mac off him, then unsheathes a rifle he had strapped to his back.

He aims it at Mac and shouts, “Who the hell are you?!”

On the ground, Mac lifts up his chin and says, “I’m a cop too.”

“Like hell you are!” The cowboy replies, aiming his gun at Mac’s face.

Indignantly, Mac says, “I’m a totally badass vampire cop. Way better than a regular super strength cowboy cop!”

At that, the cowboy cop stares at Mac, then jumps when Dennis makes the car tilt again. The dog over in the pickup starts barking loudly again.

“I’ve walked in on something surely crazy here! What the shit do you have in there?”

The cowboy doesn’t take his gun off Mac, and Mac can’t help but think he looks kind of hot all dressed up in tight cowboy suede and his huge beefcake arms taking control of the gun. Then the cowboy goes open the trunk and Mac leaps to his feet to stop him.

“Don’t open it!” Mac yelps, but the cowboy pushes him back.

“You stay right there you maniac!” The cowboy says, forcing Mac a few feet away under threat of his gun.

Then, with one hand, the cowboy cop clicks open the trunk and then gets yanked inside in a flurry of tan suede. Before the trunk shuts, the rifle goes off and narrowly misses Mac’s shoulder. Mac becomes far more interested in his perceived invincibility to notice the commotion occurring in the darkness of the trunk, and is further fascinated by a light wind passing through two perpendicular holes in his shirt.

When Dennis emerges from the trunk robed in a silver sunshield, the pickup truck keys in hand, Mac announces, “Dennis! I’m a vampire!”

Mac can’t see Dennis’ facial expression because it’s hidden by the sunshield but he doesn’t say anything either and instead steps out of the trunk before buckling down on the ground.

Mac scrunches his nose. “I thought you wanted me to be a vampire?”

Dennis remains quiet, forces himself to stand up and starts making his way toward the pickup. In a broken voice, he growls, “We need to go.”

Dennis gets halfway to the truck and then buckles down again, yowling in pain.

“Didn’t you see how my vampire prowess prevented me from getting shot and also from getting impaled by a god damn fence? Clearly I’m a vampire Dennis.”

Dennis shudders on the ground and rises again. “I thought you said that guy was a cop,” Dennis says before tossing the keys to Mac.

Mac catches them. “Oh yeah, he totally is an undercover cop. They must have been tracking us or something.”

“Pretty sure he was just a farmer,” Dennis says as he shuffles over to the passenger side of the pickup. “Get in. I’ll tell you where to drive until the sun goes down.”

The dog in the back stands up on the edge of the tray and barks wildly at Dennis as he struggles to climb in without the sunshield slipping down. Mac grips the keys in his fist and glances back at Dee’s busted up car.

“So wait, are we going to just steal a cop car? Shouldn’t we like, call an ambulance?”

When Dennis settles in the seat, the dog gnashes his jaw against the small glass window behind Dennis’ head. Before slamming the door shut, Dennis calls out, “GET IN MAC!”

Mac frowns as he feels impelled to climb into the front seat. He hangs the key in the ignition, thinking briefly about the cop Dennis left in the trunk without and food or water. He’s done some illegal shit in his life but this probably takes the cake.

“If anyone asks any questions,” Mac says as he starts the engine, “I can tell them I’m an undercover cop too.”

Dennis groans, pulling the sunshield over his whole body like a stiff, metallic blanket. He starts to direct Mac with the dog behind them barking relentlessly. Seemingly every time Mac makes a wrong turn, Dennis buckles in pain but Mac hardly notices his friend’s pain when he gets yelled at every time. Quickly Mac is able to find the direction Dennis wants him to drive in and redirect the conversation back to his badass encounter.

“After you do whatever it is we’re doing, I’m gonna go to Hollywood to meet my long lost twin.”

The dog barks.

Dennis sighs, “You don’t have a twin, Mac. Besides, don’t you want to go back to work? What happened to you fearing Charlie would fire you?”

“I wonder if he’s a vampire too? Or,” Mac pauses, raising his eyebrows, “It’s _because_ I’m a vampire that a record of another me even exists. My theory is that because vampires don’t have a reflection and all, the computer matched my identity to the closest one resembling me, and, you know like in the movies, my face probably replaced what the other guy looked like. So, really, the guy in Hollywood only _kind of_ looks like me... like those guys I found who looked like you!”

The dog barks.

“Oh please shut up…”

“Yeah, that sounds good. So because of the FBI’s high tech interacting with my vampirism, I have now overwritten my facial identity over the cop’s in Hollywood, which means... “

The dog gnashes his teeth against the back window.

“I’m an undercover vampire cop!”

Dennis roars underneath his sun shield. He flips up one edge and yells, “You are not a goddamn cop _or_ a vampire, you idiot!”

“I am!” Mac says indignantly, “According to FBI files I most definitely am a cop. And I’m totally a vampire because I’m invincible!”

Dennis hisses through grit teeth, “You. Are. Not.”

“That’s bullshit! You don’t know! You don’t know anything! I could be a different type of vampire that you have never heard of!”

“If you were a goddamn vampire you’d burst into flames!” Dennis says, flipping down his sun shield to expose himself to the setting sun.

Immediately smoke starts to raise from his face, prompting Dennis to retreat back into the shade.

“I don’t see any fire, Dennis,” Mac says, swaying on the road when he looked at Dennis smoking.

Dennis cries exasperatedly, “I just drank human blood! I’m more impervious than say, if you _were_ a vampire, you would literally go up in flames the second you were exposed to sunlight because you haven’t drunk any blood.”

Mac thinks for a moment, recalling his failed attempt to suck the blood of the cop earlier. “Then what am I? Am I Jesus incarnate?”

Dennis laughs derisively, “No, God, you’re just a human being!”

“But how did I survive getting--”

“Because I saved you!”

Mac blinks. “What?”

“I don’t know!”

“But how?”

“I don’t know okay! Just shut up and drive!”

At that, Mac falls quiet despite his strong urge to argue.

 

<>

 

Mac’s stomach rumbles loudly.

Stupid idiot.

The dog barks.

 _Hurry_.

Hate! An immensely painful, invisible pull.

The dog barks.

Mac taps his hands on the steering wheel in an annoying, offbeat rhythm.

 _I’m waiting_.

Shut up!

His bones being plucked out of his flesh, strung along in the direction he needs to go, blood vessels and intestines and muscles all sagging around the line of bones like jewels.

The dog barks, won’t stop barking. Mac’s stomach grumbles and continues to drive in eerie silence. And the pull continues, yanking his breath out of him, tearing his stomach up and out of his mouth.

As soon as the sun’s heat falls cool against the oncoming night, Dennis orders Mac to stop the car. He kicks the sun shield away – the only stupid useful thing in Dee’s trunk – and gets out of the car. Moving in the opposite direction feels something like running his hand over velvet backwards, or pulling back the short hairs on Mac’s neck. Something worse, like a finger lining a jagged blade, like stone against a cheese grater.

The dog won’t stop barking. Mac steps out of the car too, silent, an angry look on his face. Luckily for Mac, the dog is currently pissing Dennis of the most. Dennis moves against the grain and leaps into the tray and instantly feasts on the dog. Ferocious barks turn into yelps and then go quiet. When he’s done, he unhooks the lead and kicks the carcass off the tray. He stands up and catches Mac staring at him in absolute dismay.

“What?!” Dennis snaps before wiping fur off his chin, “Just say it!”

Mac’s face darkens. “Why did you have to kill the dog?”

Dennis licks the remaining blood off his hands before climbing out of the tray and explaining to Mac, “It was either him or you.”

“But… you killed him…”

Dennis rolls his eyes. “Yeah, like I killed that ‘cop’, and that FBI agent in Fargo, and those girls at the motel, and that disgusting old woman rotting away in our apartment block. Do you know _why_ they’re dead, Mac?”

“I thought they weren’t—”

“Because I’m a _monster_ , Mac. A monster who sucks blood out of people until they _die_. That’s what a vampire does, Mac. Vampires kill people to survive.”

Dennis gets in the driver’s seat and tells Mac to get in when he just stands there, unable to take his eyes from the dog lying on the road. Once Mac is seated, Dennis floors it. Mac grips onto his seatbelt and for a very long time, he doesn’t say a thing. Dennis puts on the radio, skipping it from whatever hick station the farmer had it on until he finds a pop station and blasts the music as he remains on course.

After a couple of hours, a large, faded sign welcomes them to the Bemidji county. The closer they get to town, the less intense the pulling becomes. And by the time Dennis pulls onto the main street, the voice inside his head goes all but silent.

Mac looks out the window at the stores on the main street. Barely any of them are lit up.

“I’m not sure I want to be a vampire anymore…”

“Do you think _I_ wanted to be one? You don’t have a choice, Mac.”

“DENNIS! That place is open! Oh my God can we PLEASE stop for food, I am starving!”

Dennis relents, if only so that Mac can stop complaining about being hungry. Besides, maybe if he stops moving for a while, he’ll be able to catch on to which direction he’s meant to head next, and figure out why he has been called back to this stupid deadbeat town again in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmk what you think of it so far :)


	4. The Order, Pennsylvania jurisdiction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more insight about this universe's lore in this chapter~

The Lawyer-turned-Captain of an archaic Vampire Hunter Order, lifts yet another box of unsorted files and drops them on his desk, groaning as the weight of the box makes some of the piles he had already organised swish onto the stone floor. He pulls his trousers up at his knees and bends down to snatch the sheets, and as he does so, he hears a knock on his office door. Angry that his lieutenant has ignored his explicit instructions to call him on his cell if there are any issues rather than speak to him in person, he stands up and hits his head on the underneath of the table on the way up.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?” He barks at the closed door, rubbing his head.

His lieutenant, Gloria Burgle, is a long time servicewoman for the Order, and self-appointed Captain until the Council officially appointed The Lawyer as Captain of the Pennsylvania Jurisdiction. She enters the room wearing her eyes in a usual half lidded look which The Lawyer has grown to loathe almost on the same level as the man who stole his ex-wife away from him.

“I _told_ you,” The Captain grouches, “That I should not be bothered unless there was an extreme emergency, at which point you should dial my cell on the number I _wrote_ down for you. It’s not very difficult!”

Gloria stands with her legs wide and her hands clasped behind her back. She states, “I have some information.”

“That’s not an _emergency_ , now is it? You can go back into your office and leave a message on my voicemail with whatever it is you have to say.” He turns his back and places the fallen papers back in their respective piles. “I have to put this place in order.”

“Yes, I understand, but-”

The Captain closes his eyes and slowly exhales. “But _what_?”

“We don’t have a phone line installed.”

The Captain slaps his hand to his face and clenches his temples tightly as he turns around to face his hopeless lieutenant. “You realize that the _whole_ system here is backwards, right? No phone line, no proper filing system… no one even understands what a hierarchy _means_ anymore!”

“I’d argue that there’s just not enough people left for who’s in charge of who to matter.”

“Then what’s the harm in relocating to an office up where the sun can come in through windows, huh? Why do you people _insist_ on keeping the HQ in a god damn _dungeon_. What is this, the 1500s??”

Gloria clears her throat. “We’re just trying to get used to how you want things run around-”

The Captain starts pacing around the room. “This is exactly the reason why the elders appointed me here. There should have been no reason why you have to change because by 2010 all the HQs were meant to be running in the same standardised way.” He throws up his arms and kicks a box of files. The top layer of paper explodes out of the box, covering one corner of the room with now extremely unsorted files. “That’s how businesses _work_.”

“I always say, if a thing’s not broken, don’t try to fix it. Ar-”

“NUH, UH, UH!” The Captain stops her before she could utter the name of his hopeless predecessor, “I don’t want to hear that person’s name mentioned ever again. All I want to hear is _why_ you have interrupted me!”

Gloria is quiet for a moment, watching The Captain slump down at his desk.

“We got a letter from Minneapolis.”

“A _letter_.”

Gloria nods. “Fargo got wiped out.”

The Captain’s jaw drops. “WHAT? HOW?”

“It explains a lot. I’ve been wondering why we haven’t been getting any mail from Fargo in a while.”

“I repeat, _how_?”

“Minneapolis thinks it was one of Fargo’s own,” Gloria looks around as if to check if anyone was listening and she says solemnly, “Suspected UV.”

The Captain slams his palm on the desk. “God damn it! Why do _you_ know what a UV is? You shouldn’t know that!”

“Ar-”

“ _Don’t_ say her name.”

“-Was all for everyone being on the same page as everyone else. Worked out better to-”

“No. There are secrets that are _meant_ to be secrets. That’s why the hierarchy exists, to keep certain people knowing what the general public should not even be aware of.” He sighs, rubbing his temples again. “Was that all?”

Gloria purses her lips. “It’s a matter of, uh, who the traitor is…”

The Captain scoffs. “You have no right to call _anyone_ a traitor after helping to run this place into the ground. You should all be called traitors knowing what you know.”

The Captain shakes his head and he stands up once more to sort through the boxes on his desk. He tells her to leave but she doesn’t budge. “Look, it doesn’t matter who he is. Minnesota is not our jurisdiction.”

Gloria wrinkles her nose. “But it was Lorne Malvo.”

After a while of silence, The Captain looks up from the files and locks eyes with Gloria. “I’m assuming I’m meant to know who this man is, but how am I meant to when your records are on paper dating back to the dark ages!”

Gloria moves her weight from one foot to the other and says, “You should know who he is, he’s one of the most sought after UVs.”

He throws his arms up. “Oh of course! Why wouldn’t the lowest rank know the details of an Ultra Vampire. Good grief! I knew I was taking a risk in agreeing to this job. It was between Fargo and Philadelphia and silly me wanted to not stray too far from my ex-wife but look what it’s got me!”

“If you went to Fargo you would’ve been killed.” Gloria states, and before The Captain can make his reply, she continues, “And better having me know stuff that I ‘shouldn’t know’ than you having to wait until you’ve organised the records. You better start treating me with some respect or it’s not going to be you and me running this place, it’s just going to be you. And I can tell you that the other three are not going to listen to a word you say without me backing you up.”

The Captain drops the file in his hand and crosses his arms. He nods, thin lipped.

“Well, we’re getting somewhere with that. Better than getting yelled at for doing my job.”

The Captain squints. “Okay, tell me why I should care about this… uh, what was his name?”

“Lorne Malvo,” Gloria explains, “He was a hunter in the 18th century. He excommunicated himself, we can only assume because he discovered the secret. He has since rarely shown any signs on the surface, even through the great purge. We suspected he might have gone down, but in recent years he has resurfaced on CCTV footage. He’s a fascinating one because it’s almost as if he thinks he’s still human. The only times he messes up is when he lets himself die.”

“What do you mean he lets himself die?”

“As in, he lives the life of a human until he gets killed somehow, only to revive himself with the help of a fellow vampire.”

“He’s turning people… Why haven’t we caught him yet?”

“Well he doesn’t seem to turn people very often. In fact, we have it on records that he most often kills his fellow vampire once he has been revived.”

“Curious.”

“Indeed. What’s more, is that he covers most of his human kills as gunshot kills. It’s incredibly crafty. Our Hunters have discovered as much as they can about him and have documented it in books available in the library. You do know how to use the Dewey Decimal system, right?”

“I was born in the 60s, Gloria. I know my way around a library.”

Gloria holds up her hands. “I’m just asking. I know plenty of city folk who haven’t set foot in a library since laptop computers were invented.”

“Great, was that all? I have a lot to do if I want to get home tonight before sunset.”

“You can always sleep here. Art-”

“I don’t give a shit what she used to do! I refuse to spend day and night in this place when I have my own home up on the surface where normal people live.” The Captain waits for Gloria to excuse herself, but again she does not budge. “What is it now?”

“There’s one more thing,” Gloria says as she brings her hands to her front, revealing two envelopes in hand.

“ _More_ letters,” The Captain says flatly, “I don’t have time to read letters.”

“That’s fine, I’ll tell you what they contain.”

The Captain raises his eyebrows and bites back another vehement tangent on why his lieutenant shouldn’t be going through the Captain’s mail without permission.

“The first one the aforementioned letter from Minneapolis. It informs us that there was an initiate at Fargo whose hunting partner was killed by Malvo prior to the base being wiped out.”

“ _Partner_? Good God! A system here run on centuries old technology and Hunters going out in pairs up in the North? What on Earth is going on in this organisation?!”

“It was for uh, special circumstances, Captain. Wes Wrench was born deaf.”

“Uh huh,” The Captain replies, unimpressed by such an explanation.

“So, the letter details more about Wrench. He went rogue after his partner was killed. He was last seen in St Cloud by a Minnesotan Hunter who was tracking Varga there.”

“Varga. In the US?”

“Yes, he seems to have left England for good.”

“Tell me that you don’t know that he’s…”

“Oh yes, I know. Regardless, the Minnesotan Hunter crossed paths with Wrench shortly before his own demise, however, he was able to relay important information to Minnesota before his death.”

“Are you suggesting a Hunter killed another Hunter?”

“Maybe so. We can’t be sure.”

The Captain sighs. “I’m not wasting our time going after a hunter no matter how _possibly_ deranged he is. We need to fix things down here first.”

“Well, see, we got a letter from Wrench too.”

“Oh?”

“He seeks an audience with us since he has information about Malvo _and_ Varga.”

“And let me guess, he wants to use his testimony that he has killed off one of them to clear his name?”

“I suspect so,” Gloria says gravely, “It matches communications from Minneapolis identifying Wrench as needing to be trialled under their jurisdiction for serial murdering of humans in St Cloud.”

“Killing another Hunter is one thing, but humans? That goes against the very grain of The Order.”

“For that reason, I suggest we decline Wrench’s request for an audience.”

The Captain stands up suddenly. “This isn’t a problem, this is an _opportunity_. We can retain Wrench and use him to trade with Minneapolis!”

“Oh I didn’t – he’s a human, Captain, we shouldn’t disrespect--”

“Shut up. I need to think,” The Captain says, starting to pace the room, “What exactly did the letter from Wrench say?”

“All it says is that he seeks an audience.”

“Why Philadelphia? Why not Chicago, or St Louis, or anything closer to North Dakota?”

Gloria leaves the letters on The Captain’s desk and says, “I’m not sure.”

The Captain stops pacing the room to tap his chin thoughtfully. “Accept his proposal. We’ll hear what he has to say and use him to gain supplies and perhaps even staff from Minneapolis.”

“Don’t you think we should be trying to recruit new Hunters ourselves?”

“We don’t have time for that! Don’t you see? We have an entire HQ wiped out by a single UV, and I’m only presuming he has something to do with the Gerhardt uprising in Fargo. We only have a handful of active members in Philadelphia alone. How do you expect us to reinforce an entire millennium of history to new initiates when our records are in such disarray?”

“It’s the 21st century now so, I mean, I’m all for how things were but perhaps we could try going out of the family for such things?”

“You should be exiled yourself for suggesting such a thing! Letting insiders in who don’t have a solid understanding of what is actually going on in this world are part of the reason why we are in this mess in the first place – that along with Captains thinking they are running a home business rather than a franchise. No, no time for sourcing from the bloodline until we have this place set up. Until then, we need more staff. And this is the fastest way we can get this place in order. Prepare the council room.”

“I still don’t think we should use him.”

“I don’t care. And when I say _prepare_ , I mean _clean_ it from floor to ceiling. If I see another goddamn cobweb in this filthy dungeon I swear to God I will--”

“Fine!” Gloria puts her hands up and goes toward the door, “I’ll take care of it!”

Gloria slams the door shut behind her and The Captain closes his eyes, presses his hands to his face and sighs deeply.

“Law is stressing you out too much, I said. Try something new, I said.”

He drops his hands and looks at all of the work literally piled up on his desk. But there is one good thing about this new job. He’ll never have any one of those idiots from the Irish Pub walking in and demanding free legal advice ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading :)


	5. Lou’s Coffee Shop - Bemidji

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in the perspective of Molly Solverson, so i'll give a quick run down for non-Fargo watchers:  
> Molly is the Bemidji cop who was on the case of figuring out who killed Lester Nygaard's wife, Pearl. Essentially she knew it was Lester who killed Pearl, not Malvo - a wanted hitman - who Lester framed for the crime. The Bemidji police would rather believe Malvo committed the crime than 'harmless' Lester. Molly, like her father, Lou, is very intelligent and observant, and was adamant about proving that she was right.  
> Molly's husband, Gus, was a policeman too but for animal control, so he got in over his head getting involved in a murder case with Molly. He's a really sweet but not very brave man. They both get removed from the case even when it is clear that both Lester and Malvo have a hand in the wrong doings of the town.  
> Coincidentally they get wrapped back into finding more evidence against the two men by the end of the show.

Molly sits on a stool at the counter nursing a cold cup of coffee. She bounces her foot on the stool, and every rock makes her coffee slosh around in the cup. Lou makes his rounds topping up the regulars’ coffee, then when he comes around the back of the counter, he carefully pries the cup out of Molly’s fingers. He pours the old coffee down the sink and fills the cup with the remains of the brew, before setting up the coffee maker to start a fresh batch.

Molly wraps her hands around her now lukewarm cup and tries to ignore the telephone her father pushes toward her.

“You should call him.”

“I’m not upset about anything, Dad.”

Lou crosses his arms. “That’s why you’re sitting here at 8pm.”

“I don’t want to call up the sheriff and ask him to apologise to me. He knows that he was wrong to take me off the case. I’m expecting an apology face to face any day now.”

“I know. I think you should call your husband.”

“Gus?” Molly looks up at her father in confusion, “Why would I be angry at Gus?”

The coffee machine beeps. Lou takes the pot out and holds it in one hand, then flattens his other hand on the small of his back.

“I’m not mad… he did the right thing...”

“Molly, I appreciate that ya want to spend time with me, but you should be with your family at 8pm, not here in my little coffee shop.”

“Dad…”

“Are you going to pretend you don’t have anything to say or are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?”

Molly takes a sip of her coffee and mutters, “You’re too good at reading people.”

Lou smiles and rests the coffee pot on the counter, then waits for his daughter to speak. While Molly gathers her thoughts, two new customers enter the coffee shop. One man looks familiar to her, but she can’t place exactly where she knows him from. In her peripheral vision, she watches the familiar guy take a hat off the rack and rip the tag off before putting it on.

“Make sure ya charge that guy for the hat,” she whispers to her dad.

The familiar guy makes a dramatic sigh and, in his Philly accent, he asks loudly, “Why are we here?”

“ _ You _ drove us here,” The other guy says, moving over to gawk at the display cabinet.

“I hate this town,” The familiar guy mutters under his breath, pulling his hat down to hide his face.

Molly notes the suspicious behaviour. If there’s any trouble, there’s two trained policemen here in the shop who can handle a situation should one arise. Well, technically they’re both off duty as her father, a sixty year old man with a bad leg and herself, a heavily pregnant woman. Well, the police station is just around the corner if things do hit the fan.

The unfamiliar guy leans over to peer inside the cabinet, then loudly comments, “There’s not much here.”

“We’ll be closing soon,” Lou informs them.

“Aw man, can I still order?!”

“Pick anything and I’ll give ya two for one,” Lou offers.

“Did you hear that, Dennis? Two for one!”

The familiar guy, Dennis, crosses his arms and purses his lips. “I can see why. Everything in there looks dry as shit.”

His friend ignores him and orders a sandwich, a croissant and a slice of walnut bread. Lou serves would of each food items on a large tray and pours out two cups of complimentary black coffee. It's not exactly special treatment. It's better to give away the food than let it go to waste. 

The unfamiliar guy pays, surprised at the low cost of everything (including the hat) and they take the tray to the nearest table.

Lou then sits on his stool on his side of the counter and stretches out his bad leg, gently massaging it where the flesh worries against metal rods. After a while, Lou gently reminds his daughter that he hasn’t forgotten about their earlier conversation by saying her name.

Molly chews on her lip and looks at her father, “Dad, it’s too silly to mention."

“Tell me and we can work out if it’s silly enough to worry about.”

“Alright,” Molly concedes. She wraps her fingers around her cup, now cold again, and drums her fingers against the plastic as she speaks, “I’m – no, it’s so  _ selfish _ Dad…”

“Let me hear it,” He presses.

Molly stares down at her pregnant belly. Lou keeps massaging his leg and waits for his daughter to continue.

“…I... I keep thinking that I should have been the one to get Malvo.” She pauses. “I wish Gus had called for backup sooner. I wish that he had called  _ me _ …” She sighs. Her baby kicks inside her, a literal kick to the gut as she admits what’s going on in her head. “I am glad that Gus chased Malvo down. That man was pure evil. But… I wish I had been in Gus’ shoes.”

“It’s normal, honey, to wish things had gone differently. But the fact is that the way they’ve happened, is how it’s going to have to be. There’s nothing you can do to change it.”

“I know…” Molly sulks.

“But you can change the way you feel about it.”

“I don’t want to bother Gus with this. He never brings it up himself. It will crush him to know that I’m jealous of him.”

“I suppose he’s not much of a boastful type.”

Molly smiles. “No, he isn’t. I’m fine, really, Dad. I need to sort myself out without tearing Gus down with me.”

“I still think you should talk to him.”

Molly thinks about this for a moment, then replies, “I really don’t want to.”

A heavy tap on her shoulder startles her. She swivels around on the stool and sees the guy who had ordered the sandwiches standing in front of her. He takes a step backward, scrutinizing her large belly with a disgusted look on his face.

“Ew... Uh, wait, what did you just say?” The guy asks.

Molly looks at him quizzically. He’s wearing a shirt with the sleeves cut off, and has his arms crossed in a fashion of recoil to seeing the girth of her pregnant belly.

“I didn’t say anything to ya,” Molly states.

“Ask her about Malvo!” The guy called Dennis calls out from the booth, causing the last of their regulars to jump. Dennis quickly realizes how he has drawn attention to himself and tries to make himself small in his seat by hunching and pulling his hat down.

The guy in front of her says, “Oh yeah, so, when you said Malvo was ‘got’ did you mean he got arrested?”

Molly frowns. Surely the news of ‘Lorne Malvo, the state’s most wanted hit-man shot dead’, has hit the papers, though she's not sure if it's worthy of national coverage. New Yorkers or... No, Philly folk barely care about what happens in states so close to Canada.

“He was shot,” Lou says before Molly can make her answer.

Lou pulls out a newspaper clipping from the wall alongside the Solverson's other notable cases and slides it across the counter. The guy looks at the paper quizzically, then says, "Nah, I saw this, but Den - I don't believe it."

“Did you lose someone from him?” Lou asks. He sounds gentle, but he's testing the man, Molly can tell.

The guy holds a finger to his chin, then says, “Yes.”

“NO…” Dennis groans loudly.

The guy before her shakes his head. “No? Okay, no. No, I’m a…. cop! I need to know for, uh, cop related reasons if Malvo is dead or alive.”

Molly exchanges a look with her father. She eases herself off the stool and pulls out her badge. The guy spots it and his eyes go wide, which Molly had anticipated, but not what comes out of his mouth next.

“I’m really a cop,” He insists, “I’m an undercover cop.”

“Are ya, son?” Lou asks, "You have your badge with you then?"

“I am! If you don’t believe me you can get out your fingerprint reader thing and check because I am definitely a cop. From  _ Hollywood _ .”

“Right…” Molly says, “Even if I wanted to do that, we couldn’t. Bemidji doesn’t have that kind of equipment.”

“Especially not now. Don’t think the station is going to be able to afford even a ream of paper for years to come…” Lou says, “The whole district got sued by some fella from, well, I was going to say your parts, but you say you’re from Hollywood?”

“Yeah, dude. Check your police files. I have a name and a face and everything that a cop in Hollywood would have.”

“Dude just shut up,” Dennis snaps, getting up from his booth. He stalks over to them and says, “All I need to know is if Malvo is dead or alive. Can you tell me that?”

Molly glances at her father, and Lou says, “He’s dead.”

“Like,  _ dead _ , dead?” The unfamiliar guy asks.

“He reappeared out of nowhere,” Molly explains, “we - my husband happened to see him and shot him dead.”

Suddenly, Dennis snaps and pushes his friend out of the way to seize Molly by the fur of her collar.

He spits in her face, “WHY DID YOU DO THAT? WHY DID YOU HAVE TO KILL HIM?”

“I didn’t!” Molly snaps, her anger a few notches beneath his level. 

For a second she shares an intense look with the man, both of their faces so close, eye to eye. She feels weirdly transfixed by his voice, as if her ears were telling her brain that the aggression should be translated into something calming. 

Lou darts around the counter just as Dennis’ friend yanks him away. By the time Lou has stumbled around to meet his daughter, the two customers have barrelled their way out of the coffee shop.

“Are you okay?!” Lou asks, eyeing her over for any physical damage. 

Molly nods slowly. She watches the guys exchange heated words with each other outside. Newspapers from the stand flit across the window and away in the breeze. Quickly, the soothing spell lifts, leaving her with a pile of rocks in her gut. Heavy because she had disclaimed her involvement in killing Malvo not purely out of honesty. It was a truthful protest laced with not only regret, but immense  _ jealousy _ . She didn’t want Malvo to rot in jail.  _ She _ wanted to be the one to fire the bullet through his skull. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you have any questions lmk :)


	6. Paradisiac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warning for graphic depiction of violence.  
> hope you like it~

On the way out of the store, Dennis wrestles out of Mac’s hold and in doing so he smacks his arm against the doorframe. He swears loudly and kicks a newspaper stand, sending the papers gusting away in the wind.

“ _Everything_ I do leads to a dead end!” Dennis yells, waving his foot in the air in a vain attempt to shake loose the newspapers that have stuck to his shoes.

A voice in his head howls at him. _Pointless_.

“I’m in this shithole _dead end_ town and for what??” Dennis spits on the ground. “I don’t know what to do anymore! I don’t like not knowing what to do, Mac!”

_This is hell._

“So uh, did you still want to go to Duluth?”

“What would be the POINT?!” Dennis fumes.

“Shit, you’re right dude. Let’s leave this place and go to Hollywood!” Mac says. He bounces toward the car, all excitement lost when he sees the blank look on Dennis’ face. “Bro, you don’t get to be all mopey about this! You dragged me halfway across the country! We’re doing my thing now!”

Suddenly, Dennis drops to hide behind the car they stole. _Breathless. Pointless. Burn them all._

Mac looks around. “Crap are the cops around? I don’t think my heightened hearing senses have come in yet.”

“God damn it Mac you’re not a vampire!” Dennis hisses.

_A soulless demon who only knows how to rile and taunt._

A confused, high pitched voice cuts through the night. “Hello?”

“Don’t-”

Mac’s voice cracks. “Mandy?!”

_No, no, no!_

Dennis sinks further down against the tire and draws his knees up beneath his chin. He hears Mac dash down the sidewalk, the small spot of heat signifies Mac lifting Brian Jr. up in his arms. God damn Mac. God _damn_ him. Everything that has lead up to this point has counted on him being able to meet his maker and demand answers, but because of _Mac’s_ idiocy, he’s missed his chance. He must truly be in hell. It’s the only thing that makes sense from being killed to waking up in the hospital in Philadelphia, then somehow being able to find Mac by the Schuylkill River. He hasn’t had a second chance at life at all. He’s been in hell this entire god damn time.

_Where is the voice that told me where to go?_

Dennis presses his face into his knees. None of this makes sense. At all. Mandy and Brian Jr. can’t have died as well, unless Brian Jr. had already been alive long enough for Dennis’ evil to rub off… The reason why he’s so entangled with Mac must be attributed to this sickness that he has.

_Pointless._

Is he destined to fail _and_ fall by Mac’s side?

_Destined._

There’s no point in going anywhere now. No pull. No point to but to live in this pseudo state of living. No direction, no information about how to reign superior.

_Weakness._

He suddenly longs for his Mom… but tosses that idea away quickly in favour of wanting his sister. She has always understood him better than anyone else… but if he revealed himself to her, and told her what he was… He knows she would stop at nothing to get what he has. And even though he hates Dee, he wouldn’t dare share it with her even if he knew how. Besides from keeping her away from a terrible affliction, he would have yet another mode of control over her. Whereas if he turned Mac, it wouldn’t matter if he died in the line of fire.

_Loveless._

Suddenly the driver seat door cracks open and slams shut, then the engine roars to life. Dennis scrambles to his feet, still ducking by the cover of the car as he jumps back in his seat.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Dennis hisses.

“Mandy offered for us to stay the night,” Mac explains as he pulls out of the parking spot.

“ _Us?_ ” Dennis growls, clenching his fists.

“Okay, just me, I guess. Dude it was so weird, I couldn't tell her you were with me, like I physically couldn't tell her about you. That's like, a _thing_ , right?”

_Shut up._

Dennis crosses his arms and sinks in his seat as the car moves off.

“Oh yeah, she said she was picking Brian Jr. and her sister up since she had just finished work but in my opinion a little kid like Brian Jr. shouldn’t stay up this late, don’t you think? Mandy isn’t a very good mother. Also, I didn't know Mandy had a sis-”

“Whatever!” Dennis says in an attempt to cut him off, a wretched memory of Viola rejecting his charitable advances.

“Lucky you banged Mandy because she must be the highest scoring woman in the family and she's only a 6.5. Probably closer to a 5 now that she's had a baby.”

_Hungry._

Dennis pouts and wraps his arms around his stomach. Normally he would correct Mac, not because Mandy particularly deserved to be ranked better but because Mac should know that Dennis wouldn’t sleep with anyone beneath an 8 and Mandy was definitely an 8 when he banged her at the Arby’s all those years ago.

“I can’t wait to prove to Mandy that you’re not dead,” Mac says as he pulls up in front of Mandy’s house.

Dennis forgot how small this town actually is, and that a drive from the shittiest coffee shop in town to his ex's house takes less than five minutes.

“Oh no, I’m not going in there,” Dennis says sternly.

“Well how am I going to prove that I’m not crazy if you don’t come inside?” Mac says, “Come on, they’re going to think I’m an asshole.”

“You _are_ an asshole,” Dennis replies as he pulls himself out of the car.

_Pointless._

Mac steps out and presses one hand on top of the hot hood. “What the hell? Where are you going?”

“I need to eat,” Dennis says as he starts to move off.

“We just ate!”

Dennis pivots on the gravel ground and glares at his shadow hugging demon. “ _You_ just ate, because you’re a human, you idiot. I need to drink blood because I’m the one who is a vampire, unless you want me to go in there and rip Brian Jr.’s head off with my teeth in front of his mother and aunt. Want me to do that, Mac? You loved it when I feasted on that dog.”

Mac grimaces. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

_Pointless._

Dennis leaves Mac to wander into Mandy’s house alone while he prowls a familiar street. When Dennis was playing Don Chumph, people in this neighbourhood seemed to like to remember who he was and where he lived, a practice Dennis never understood. He lived here for months and he didn’t care or like to know where other people lived. The houses on the street simply formed a backdrop in a pathway to Mandy’s Now, the houses serve Dennis as keepers of food, stationary hot spots lying in wake, petrified for their descent into the abattoir that is his handsome face.

_Burn them._

He makes his choice based on the design of the house he would like to claim. He lifts the latch of an iron side gate, creeps along a sandstone pathway, starlight sparkling across a still pool. A large wooden deck stretches out to the mouth of the pool. Arranged on top is a modern BBQ, two lounging deck chairs, and a raised hot tub. This is the house Dennis should have had, not as Don Chumph or Brian Lefevre. Dennis Reynolds deserves a mansion.

The handles to large French doors stand unlocked which surprises him. All of this wealth hanging behind a luxury house and there’s no security? There is too much trust for the bland people in this town. He walks into an open plan living room. Cream leather couches form a U shape around a large fireplace. Behind the couches, the room falls away into a kitchen with large marble counters and a sink so deep he could bathe in it. He wonders how many severed heads he could fit in the largest home refrigerator he’s ever seen.

_Bloodless._

A warm, yellow light glows from up a carpeted staircase. He prowls up the stairs, feet padded by high end carpet. Up on the landing, he can hear the pages of a glossy magazine flip, the clacking sound of a keyboard, no voices. He creeps toward the room. From the doorway he can see a man sitting at a desktop computer facing the opposite wall, his back facing a woman laying on her stomach on top of the bed robed in sexy red lingerie.

Perfect.

_Pointless._

Dennis watches the woman turns a page in her magazine and tears off a corner of the page. She crumples the scrap of paper then throws it at the man, who flinches but does not look away from his work. The woman peruses the content on the page, then turns to the next and repeats the action, her shaved legs swinging in the air as she pegs the paper at the man.

“Darling, would you stop-” The man begins, turning around to talk to the woman but gasps when he sees Dennis leering in the doorway.

His lips curl against his teeth, hunger howling out of his throat, then he launches at the man. He hooks his arm around the man’s neck and shoves him to the ground. The chair beneath the man kicks out across the floor. The woman on the bed scrambles up to the headboard, screaming at the top of her lungs. The sound scours membranes out of Dennis’ inner ear and he stamps down on the man’s throat so that he can roar at the woman to shut up.

The woman wrenches her mouth shut but continues to wail through a clenched jaw. The man claws at the shoe on his throat, gasping for air. Dennis kicks the man’s chin then yanks him by his silk pyjama shirt and props him up against the end of the bed.

The man hits his head on the metal frame, his head spinning for a moment, and when he recovers, he stammers, “Aren’t you Don Chumph?! That fitness instructor? I saw you in the paper! You were murdered!!”

Dennis snarls. He tilts the man’s head to one side, extends his teeth and burrows the fangs into the man’s neck.

_Lifeless._

Heat rockets through his mouth and it should burn but it ignites him, lava bursting down his throat and emanating straight into his bloodstream. He lets go briefly so he can watch the man paw at his gushing throat, his eyes widening as they pale, his body growing weak. A shiver ripples through Dennis’ body, his stomach already hungry for more. He buries his mouth against the man’s neck again, brown hair curling around his nose, thick and greasy like Mac’s.

 _Pointless_.

Blood pours down his throat like a busted faucet, filling him, spilling out of his own mouth because he’s so thirsty, a desert so parched that the spaces between the soil profiles of his innards can’t retain the moisture quick enough. He sinks to the ground and pulls the man down with him, positions the neck just in front of his mouth like a ready teat. Soft carpet cushions his heavy head.

Frantic feet scamper over bed springs, a large leap, a loud thud as she lands on the floor behind Dennis. He throws an arm out and catches the woman by her thin ankle. The woman goes crashing to the ground. She flails her arms and legs, limbs hitting the door frame, whacking the side of the dresser, acrylic fingernails clawing at the carpet as Dennis reels in his prey. Her lingerie skirt flips up revealing an exquisite site of the clefts of her ass, and Dennis grins, running a bloody hand over the goosefleshed curves. Not a spot of her body is forgiving, except where it matters.

The woman wails with her mouth shut and tries to kick Dennis, but he wrenches her body into his lap. Her blonde hair fans out over his knee and thigh, crimson lips woven tightly together and her eyes hollow as she stares into his, as if a sharp blade has protruded into her dark irises through to her skull.

“If you don’t struggle,” Dennis coos, patting her hair away from her forehead, “You won’t have to die.”

She shudders in his lap. Dennis grins, savouring the sight of a full fledged ten in his lap, but soon his hunger takes over his control. She’s placid enough, weak hands fawning at his shoulders as he feasts on her. He alternates back to the man, disappointed, looking for a fight. And gets a knee to his stomach as he returns to the man, arms flexing like Mac’s as a demonstration of dominance.

_Weak._

He laughs, tearing flesh from him and draining him, joints jabbing him relentlessly, until there’s not enough blood in the man’s body to follow through with the brain signals.

The blood imbues within Dennis’ body like petrol to hot coals. He finishes the man, the woman seeping out over the carpet, and he lies down, his head bedded by the softest wool. He laughs again, for no reason other than being so profoundly satiated. Blood trickles down his throat. Stray hairs, thick brown and long blonde, stick to his neck. He rolls his head to one side and sees the sheer material of the woman’s lingerie obscure her paling skin. She breathes weakly, a wet, bubbly noise coming out of her nose every time she exhales.

He sits up too fast, his head spinning. White folds into red. White noise filling his ears, deafening, blood splotches his vision, silent fireworking dots as the blood within him settles from horizontal to vertical. He pulls himself to heavy feet and gazes down at the leftovers sprawled out on the carpet. His cock throbs at the sight. He stumbles into their bathroom ensuite and showers without removing his eyes from the artwork he has laid out on the floor.

With their bodily messes off his skin, he selects something to wear out of the man’s fine wardrobe. Then glides down the stairs, his damp fingers leaving trails over the walls. He’s dead anyway.

Out in the night, the cool bitumen under his feet, the starless night turning blind eyes to his crimes. He walks in the middle of the road like a God, his arms raised, the tips of his fingers traipsing along the networks layered across the town. He can feel the beating heart of every living person in a 3 mile radius. The blood simmering within him and forming connections with the blood maps of humans, as if the residents of Bemidji are an extension of himself. A network of humans waiting in line, a food chain with Dennis wearing the crown.

He finds Mac easily, asleep on the couch in Mandy’s living room. How had he arrived here? Had his feet taken him here, had he been drawn to the man? With the couple dead, he had a mansion to himself. A wardrobe filled with fashion designer clothing, a pool _and_ a spa. And he’d left the chick alive too. He might have been able to obtain a camcorder or a disposable phone with a good enough camera, but somehow he’d ended up back at Mandy’s, drawn back to Mac.

This is because of his illness, nothing else. The demon inside him, the devil that wrenches his Godliness out of him and makes it so that he can’t escape Mac Mcdonald. Stupid, idiotic Mac. Look at him, lying there on that couch. This is his life now. Hunger, a ritual feast to satisfy, and crawling back to Mac. Always waiting for him, always wanting him.

He snorts out heat, his cock still hard. He picks up a rock and throws it through the window. The glass shatters loudly, the rock rolling across the linoleum floor. Mac scrambles out of the sheets on the couch, his arms flinging around in his lame karate style until he realises that it’s Dennis crawling through the shattered window.

“What the hell dude?! You’re going to wake everyone up!” Mac whispers coarsely.

Dennis holds up a finger to his lips. “Shh…”

He doesn’t know exactly what prompted him to throw a rock into Mandy’s house when he’s fairly sure he still knows where Mandy keeps the spare key, but he also knows that no one is going to wake up. One of Mandy’s genes seems to be the ability to sleep through anything. He can smell them down the hall anyway. Mandy and her ugly sister, and his kid, all sound asleep.

He makes his way through the broken window, some fragments cutting his skin but he can feel the blood within him instantly healing the wounds. He moves towards Mac, movements sluggish as if he’s drunk, deep red veiling his vision mirroring the sheer fabric of that woman’s lingerie.

“Sit down, baby, were you sleeping?” Dennis coos, dropping to his knees in front of Mac.

Mac falls back on the couch, his eyebrows knit into a deep frown. Dennis cups his hands over Mac’s knees.

“What are you -- why are your hands wet?” Mac asks a little above a whisper.

Dennis slides his hands down Mac’s inner thighs, a sharp inhale from Mac.

Relentless, Mac berates, “I’m going to Hollywood without you.”

“Don’t ruin this,” Dennis snarls.

_Kill him._

He could just kill him.

His vision hazy like pot dreams but skin hot like coke, full but hungry for something else. Wants his Mom. Wants Dee more. Instead he has Mac. He hates Mac. He wants Mac. Wants to shut him up and kill him right there in Mandy’s drab living room. Slides his hands up Mac’s bare thighs and palms Mac’s cock clothed in his boxers.

“Why aren’t you hard yet?” Dennis says tersely, staring at Mac’s crotch.

Mac shifts uncomfortably. Dennis feels something, a muscle twitch, a flex in Mac’s abdomen. He sits back on his heels and starts to pop his Ralph Lauren shirt off, his eyes connecting with Mac’s the whole time. He then eases himself up and unzips his trousers, revealing his fully engorged cock sheathed in Calvin Klein underwear.

“Are you drunk??” Mac asks with his lips curled.

Dennis smirks and lowers to his knees again. “So what if I am, baby?”

He runs his hands along Mac’s thighs again and slides them around Mac’s hips to cup his ass, pulling him a little closer on the seat of the couch. He watches gleefully as Mac’s muscles spasm with obvious want, and Dennis presses a wet kiss on Mac’s right thing. His lips leave small red residue, just slight, Mac will barely notice.

 _Hate_.

Mac takes his hands to Dennis’ hair and tries to pull Dennis closer to his cock, but Dennis remains firmly fixated on caressing Mac’s thighs with his lips. He grips Mac’s ass tightly, nibbling Mac’s thigh with his bloody teeth and presses his hard cock against the body of the couch, not at the right angle to apply pressure against Mac’s leg.

“Mandy will wake up and see that I’m right,” Mac says indignantly.

Dennis licks his lips and lifts his gaze to Mac’s face as he tells him to hush. He then spreads his palm between Mac’s pecs and pushes him to lie down on the couch. Dennis climbs over him, caging the simple human with his body and establishing his dominance by slowly grinding his throbbing cock against Mac’s boxers.

At the touch, Mac’s cock hardens fully. He tilts his chin up and tries to kiss Dennis, only to be sorely rejected.

“Don’t make this weird,” Dennis says as he rears up, his cock lowered against Mac’s, his shoulders high and face stern.

Mac nods, and Dennis rolls his hips again, watching the way Mac’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, his heart beating fast, pumping blood out into his bloodstream in successive shots. He lowers his face, a test, Mac failing when he lifts his chin so Dennis plants a hand on Mac’s cheek and pushes his face to one side. He dips in close to Mac’s neck, takes in the scent of his skin, of the blood circulating beneath, of his greasy, unwashed hair. He scratches long fingernails across Mac’s neck and throat, meeting at his sweaty collarbone and leaving pink trails in his wake.

_Hate._

Mac bucks against Dennis’ cock, a disgusting, needy motion, and _mewls_.

_Kill._

Suddenly Mac tries to flip their positions but Dennis keeps a firm hand on Mac’s shoulder and keeps him still. Mac kicks the end of the couch in frustration, a low grunt, his hips rolling, breath hot and eyes sunken in lust. Dennis threats a hand into his top quality threaded underwear and yanks them down enough to expose his cock. One hand still on Mac, he brings the other up to Mac’s chin and forces two fingers into the man’s mouth.

Mac makes a noise, eagerly taking Dennis’ fingers, lathering the bony indexes with his tongue. He looks up, his eyes dark and glowing, sucking out the flecks of blood beneath Dennis’ nails which activate in Mac like a chemical reaction, sparking within him a passionate desire. Dennis removes his fingers quickly, a frown on his face telling Mac that he’s being far too eager, punishment in the form of Dennis’ wet fingers wrapping around his cock, not Mac’s.

Dennis can feel his blood boiling, his body sweating, steam rolling off him like the sex God that he is. He pulls himself and watches Mac squirm beneath him, high on the power that he has with just one hand on Mac’s collarbone, strong enough to render him immobile.

Mac can’t move, can’t breath, can’t see anything else but Dennis’ pink face sweltering in the dark room. He seeks contact, rolls his hips and tries to find purchase against the underside of Dennis’ cock or against an inner thigh or _anything_ to slide his throbbing cock against. It hurts so much that he has tears in his eyes, his own sweat, Dennis’ sweat, teeth biting lips, fingernails clawing into his biceps, leaving marks of his own doing.

The sight of Mac painfully clutching himself sends a shiver down Dennis’ spine. He revels in it. Mac so clearly wants Dennis, so clearly is turned on by him, so clearly yearning to be touched. He can smell hot blood and the scent of cocks and the sound of his hand beating his slippery length confuses with scent and taste and want. He can feel his balls rising, his throat opening up, a gargled groan rolling out of his O shaped mouth. He shoots his seed all over Mac’s hairy chest, much to the disgust on the man’s face, and shudders through the wave, the last spurts of cum dripping over Mac’s abdomen, just above where his cock peeps out of his boxers.

He pushes off Mac, sheathes his cock, energy draining rapidly. He slides down to the floor, his head resting on Mac’s leg as he slurs something that’s been on his mind about how useless Mac is, about how he’s a doormat and weak and easy but no one hears it outside of his mind.

As soon as he can, Mac darts his hand to his cock, picking up some of Dennis’ cum along the way and starts pumping himself. His boxers get in the way and Dennis is too far away and he sits up, a hand pawing out for Dennis, finding his shoulder, the nape of his neck, a lock of curls.

“I love you Dennis,” Mac says in a raspy voice.

Dennis flinches away from the touch, panting, and the air is taken right out of him not from Mac’s old news, but from something else he hears...

_Don._

That voice. Not just his voice trying to mimic the command of the real thing. Dennis swallows a pocket of dry air. He feels as if his veins are being plucked like the strings of a cello played out of tune.

_Don, come to me._

A loud strum, the maestro calling on him, the orchestra waiting for his cue. Dennis feels a wash of relief far more powerful than his recent ejaculation.

_I need you._

“He needs me.”


	7. Saturdays = youth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about not posting in ages! i've been rather busy and lost track of my regular schedule~~

Dee is sitting on her bed cross legged, penning her next series of verses for her upcoming gig. Except the page has been blank for hours and all she’s been able to use the paper for is using the straight edge to cut her coke. Her phone screen lights up with Mandy’s name printed in bold letters. 

She thinks about ignoring it, besides, Mandy’s too sweet to inspire rage in her. Still, things have been fairly quiet with everyone having left Philadelphia except herself and The Waitress, and that alone is making her go crazy with boredom. 

“What do you want, you whore?”

“Dee?”

“I’m busy. I’ve got a song to write that has to top my last one and you’re taking precious seconds out of my day.”

“Oof, I just wanted to say that Brian and I were both so excited to see ya again-”

“You saw my last show?” Dee gasps, “I didn’t know you stuck around after the funeral! What did you think? I think it was probably my best show yet. Tell me what you thought of it. Did you like it?”

“Dee, no, I meant we were hoping ya were coming with Mac when he came to visit… I’m sorry that i left the funeral so quickly… I couldn’t be there… it was hard for me.”

Dee bunches the sheet in her fist. “What do you  _ mean _ Mac visited? He told me he wasn’t going to see you!”

“Yes well, he didn’t really. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

“Well just say it, bitch!”

Mandy says crossly, “Look, I was calling because along with breaking a window, Mac didn’t take any of your brother’s belongings away with him. And the thing is, Dee, my sister is having to move in with me, you know, it’s easier on the rent that way but also because of the recent murder that happened-”

“Dennis’ murder,” Dee supplies.

“No, actually my neighbour was murdered last night, and I think it would be safer for me and Brian if my sister moved in.”

“What good would that do?”

“...And I’m in need of freeing up some space that Dennis’ stuff is currently occupying. Plus, ya know, it’s odd for us both to be around stuff that isn’t exactly Dennis’... and with Mac turning up and leaving more things that aren’t ours to harbour… it’s hard for us to understand and far too complicated to explain to a small child.”

“What in the fresh hell do you mean Mac dropped off  _ more _ stuff?”

“He left a stolen car in my driveway,” Mandy tuts.

“THAT BASTARD! Where is he now?! That’s my goddamn car in your driveway!”

“I don’t think it’s yours, Deandra. It’s a pickup.”

“WHAT THE HELL DID HE DO WITH MINE?!”

“I’m having it towed in the-”

“That cockhead! I’ll rip his teeth out one by one! Tell him that! I’ll rip his teeth out and crush them into dust and make him snort his own teeth until his brain bleeds out of his nose!”

“Dear god,” Mandy gasps, “Mac isn’t here anymore!”

“Well where the shit is he??!”

“I don’t know, I offered him the couch for the night. He said he was going to Hollywood the next day but he’d disappeared in the night and left the pickup with me.”

“THAT-”

“Now, Dee,” Mandy interrupts with a firm voice, “I have always appreciated our correspondence, but with the way things are going now, I have half the heart to box all of Dennis’ belongings and post it to you myself.”

“Well obviously I don’t have the time or a GODDAMN CAR to drive up there and get it myself you dumb bitch!”

“Great. I’ll forward you the postage bill,” Mandy snaps before hanging up. 

“I’M NOT PAYING FOR THAT!” Dee screams into her phone. 

She realizes Mandy hasn’t heard her and she dials Mandy’s number again, tapping her knee frantically while she waits for the phone to be answered. When Mandy has the audacity to direct her call to voicemail, Dee slams her phone on the mattress but it bounces straight off and clatters along the floor with a cracking noise.

Dee screams. 


	8. The Order - Pennsylvania jurisdiction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another short-ish one. The next few chapters are much longer!

Gloria enters The Captain’s office without knocking and announces, “We have a problem.”

“What is it now??” The Captain asks, irritated that he has been interrupted from drafting his trade negotiations.

“Well, we have Wrench in custody.”

“How is that a problem? That’s what we want. He wasn’t a nuisance, was he?”

“No, not at all. He was very happy to take a seat.”

“So what’s the problem??”

“The thing is, he isn’t talking.”

“What, he’s deaf  _ and _ mute?”

“It seems so.”

The Captain waves a hand dismissively. “Well get him to write down what he has to say on a piece of paper or something!  _ The old fashioned way _ .”

“I tried that… he won’t…”

“Do I have to do everything around here? I’ll threaten him to--”

“Oh no, that’s not necessary… I misspoke. He did write  _ something _ . One thing.”

The Captain sighs. “ _ What _ one thing?”

“He wrote that he will only talk if he has a translator.”

“Oh my God!” The Captain cries, “Why is this all so difficult? Do any of the other three know sign language?”

“They do not, unfortunately. I was hoping you would.”

“Why would I know sign language? I was a lawyer before this, do you know how hard it is to become a lawyer?”

“Yes, I’m sure it’s very difficult.”

“Don’t be a sarcastic asshole, that’s my job.”

Gloria raises one eyebrow.

“Well, we can still use Wrench to trade with Minneapolis,” The Captain says, “Put out the call, will you? I’ve almost finished drafting what we demand for the exchange.”

Gloria tuts. “I think we should hear what he has to say first.”

“You think he has information we can use?”

“More than likely. He wouldn’t have come to us if he didn’t think there could be a fair and valuable trade.”

“You better start learning sign language then. We’ll hold him until you two can communicate.”

“I have a better idea.”

“Oh Jesus Christ. Did Artemis teach you to converse in cryptic ways too? Just spit it out already.”

“We could hire an interpreter.”

“ _ Absolutely not _ .”

“Outsourcing has been done without any qualms in the past.”

“Of course she would permit such a thing, being an outsider herself. No. You or one of the others must commit yourselves to learning sign language immediately.”

“...There is one other option.”

The Captain picks up his pen and finds where he was on his papers. “I don’t want to hear it if it isn’t rule abiding.”

Gloria pauses. “We had a promising initiate about ten years ago who knew sign language.”

The Captain taps the pen on his chin thoughtfully. “What happened to him?”

“He dropped out.”

“He exiled  _ himself _ ? Don’t tell me he figured out the secret...”

Gloria shrugs. “It’s entirely possible he knows, but from what I remember, he said he was in love with an outsider.”

He scoffs. “Of course. Well, we can’t use an exile, that  _ is _ against the rules.”

“Ah well, he tried to rejoin not long after. At the time, Artemis was--”

“Don’t say her name!”

“You just said it before… Anyway, she was a lieutenant at the time. She was trying to help push him back through, but her Captain rejected the resubmission.”

“Right, an exile is an exile.”

Gloria ignores him and continues, “They made one mistake. They didn’t eradicate  his documentation, so  _ technically _ , he’s still part of the initiate program.”

“The incompetency here is profound… “ The Captain says, holding the bridge of his nose. “But we can use him, I suppose. And you’re certain he knows sign language?”

“Yes, we had plans to utilise his skills once initiated.”

The Captain rubs his forehead, leaving pink marks across his brow. “Do it if it will save me from waiting until you have learned sign language yourself.”

“I’ll get into contact with him immediately,” Gloria replies. She turns to head out of the door but halts when she hears The Captain push out of his chair. 

“Hold on.”

Gloria faces The Captain, her eyes wary. 

“How were you going to find out his contact information when I have all of the filing here in my office?”

Gloria’s eye twitches but she remains firm in her stance. 

“I think you were going to go up those stairs and meet with Artemis to locate the exile.”

She clenches her jaw. Fists balled tight behind her back. “You don’t trust me.”

“No, I don’t,” He says plainly. “Not yet. It will take time for me to trust a lieutenant who assumed a higher rank without permission.”

She keeps her jaw clenched, her expression stoic.

“I want you to keep an eye on our prisoner.” 

“Fine.”

“Yes,  _ Captain _ .”

Gloria narrows her eyes. “ _ Yes Captain. _ ”


	9. Help, I’m Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warning: extreme violence! 
> 
> (p.s. I'm really proud of this chapter, i hope you guys like it too!)

Mac feels Dennis’ ejaculate drip onto on his stomach and shortly after, he’s sliding off Mac to the ground and says something about ‘needing’ and _Mac_ is the one who _needs_. He paws for Dennis, finding an arm and tries to angle limp fingers towards his straining cock. Dennis moves like he’s made of plasticine but his skin is not cold and lifeless but warm, and Mac’s stomach is heaving underneath hot semen, tight fingers around Dennis’ wrist, which twists when he stands up and shakes Mac loose.

Mac keeps a rough hand on his cock, jerking himself as he watches Dennis get changed in a haphazard manner and it’s _fine_ because he has the temperature he needs even though the touch is lacking and he’s so _close_ when Dennis is running out of the front door of Mandy’s house. A cool breeze cuts through the room, jarring him out of his rhythm. He angrily pulls his pants over his unspent cock, snatches his shirt and boots, and runs out after Dennis.

His bare feet run over cheap carpet, dewy grass, then cement. Orange lights from the street lamps glow against a cloudy night sky. Mac spots Dennis easily. He’s the only other person walking outside at the time of night, in this type of town. He barrels down the sidewalk and tackles Dennis to the ground. He throws a punch to Dennis’ face, tactically keying his knees either side of Dennis and rolling his crotch against Dennis’ abdomen to make Dennis aware of just how fully engorged he still is.

Dennis makes a disgusted face and tries to wrestle out of his hold. The two of them roll along the pavement as they throw punches at each other, dry leaves kicking into the gutter, a scuffle in the night heard by no one but themselves. Squared knuckles smack against raw bone, slide off sweaty skin, a hard boner pressing into taut muscle, tearing skin and cracking bones and grunts and gasps that disperse into the sleep blanketed town.

In total it lasts only a handful of seconds before Dennis, seemingly stronger than usual, is able to stand up and quickly put some distance between him and Mac. They glare at each other, fuming, the soundless background ringing in their ears, then Dennis decisively pivots and begins stalking down the path again.

“Dennis!!”

Dennis doesn’t respond. With his jaw smarting and dry cum flaking off his bare stomach, Mac throws one of his boots which misses Dennis and falls just in front of him. Dennis doesn’t seem to flinch, doesn’t even stop. Just keeps walking. Frustrated, Mac runs as he pegs his last boot which hits Dennis in the back of the head.

Dennis stops dead in his tracks to turn around. He bellows, “WHAT?!”

A dog starts barking in the distance.

“Where are you going?!” Mac questions, then gestures at his groin. “We have unfinished business!”

“Whatever, he needs me,” Dennis says, and half turns only to jump to one side to avoid Mac throwing a punch.

Mac’s fist hits a letter box shaped like a fish, his knuckles gliding over carved wooden scales and he recoils in pain, clutching one palm over his fist. Dennis doesn’t seem to care as he goes to cross the street.

“What the hell does that mean?!” Mac yells at Dennis’ back.

“My Master needs me,” Dennis says in a choked voice.

“Your _Master_ ,” Mac replies, dumbfounded.

Dennis strays from the sidewalk and moves toward a ditch covered in shrubbery which leads down toward a thicket of trees. The thicket serves as a noise barrier between the residential area and the large road on the other side. Before Mac loses sight of his friend, he quickly collects his boots then scampers across the road to tail Dennis. As he walks down the grassy slope, he pulls on his shirt. Some twigs from a bush sneak in beneath the fabric and itch his skin. Despite being on a hot pursuit, he can feel his cock softening. He tries to think about beefcakes to keep himself hard but it’s too difficult to do that _and_ concentrate on making a clean pathway toward Dennis.

He emerges out of the shrubbery with leaves and twigs stuck to his body and spots Dennis making his way toward the road. He’s about to run up the slope to tail him but suddenly he hears a siren closeby. Mac breaks out in a cold sweat. The siren quickly builds, and seconds later, a group of police cars blare down the street, their lights flashing past Dennis, fanning through the shrubbery and surrounding neighbourhood. Dennis seems, yet again, unperturbed.

Mac darts across the slope, bare footed, and jumps in front of Dennis. As he does so, another cop car screeches around the corner, tires burning against the ground, the scent of hot rubber licking straight down his throat. In the moments between him standing in front of Dennis, and his friend moving toward him, Mac catches a look in his eyes that is so blank and emotionless that he looks like one of those dolls Mrs. Kelly keeps in her bedroom. The ones where their faces are so perfectly shaped and skin so immaculate, with glassy eyes as soulless imitations, devoid of life. Dennis doesn’t stop moving toward him and for a hot second, with their faces so level, Mac thinks that Dennis might try to kiss him -- which wouldn’t be too bad considering how he left him dry just minutes before. However, Dennis seems intent on continuing to walk as if he could pass right through Mac, and in doing so bumps Mac to one side.

“Hey!” Mac snaps, “What the hell, dude?! I’m trying to talk to you!”

Dennis ignores him. He doesn’t make any response other than jolting forward from the impact when Mac pegs a boot at his back. Nothing. Maybe it was the police sirens that freaked him out, because not only is he mute now, he’s also walking a lot faster than Mac would like. He has to powerwalk with a hurried skip just to keep up.

Trees line one side of the road, the other side gives way to a small collection of businesses, most closed for the night. Dennis moves toward the largest one on the street, a single storey, sand coloured building with a low sloped grey roof and a large brick chimney sitting snug on one side of it. All of the lights are off on the lot, yet the chimney seems to be spouting a thick plume of dark smoke which joins the cloudy sky seamlessly, as if the town is covered in smoke plumes rather than cloud. As Mac follows Dennis to the entrance, he spots a sign which he can almost make out in the dark which reads ‘Bemidji Mortuary’.

Without a second thought, Dennis whacks his fist on the door handle and it’s possibly the most badass thing Mac has ever witnessed because despite Dennis having 110% broken his hand considering the way his fingers are pointed in all the wrong direction, he doesn’t make any kind of reaction. It’s like something out of a Terminator movie. Totally badass.

Using his broken hand, Dennis pushes through, and Mac hesitates before going through.

He thinks that an alarm should be going off but small town shops are so stupid that they often don’t have any security measures and that’s just going to make their job easier, whatever it is that Dennis is doing anyway. At this stage, he’s just rolling with it. Besides, he decides that if nothing cool happens then he’ll ditch Dennis for Hollywood, but so far he’s witnessing some pretty badass moves so at least it’s entertaining.

Mac takes some time to shove his shoes on his feet, then steps inside the mortuary. Lights flicker. The door bangs on the hinges behind him. He lifts his chin and scans down the long corridor to see where Dennis had gone. One door remains open, imparting a warm light in the dark corridor. Mac moves toward it, the empty noise of the space ringing in his ears, like the quiet of the vast, empty town beforehand. The space is not silent, however. Mac can hear crackling, different from the sound of cracking bone, something like the sound of fire snapping in the air. Somewhere in this building there must be a huge furnace blasting heat up that huge chimney Mac had seen earlier.

He reaches the door and pushes through, instantly catching whiff of a foul, ashy smell. He clamps a hand over his nose and mouth. He has walked into a small balcony with a grate floor and a railing which looks down upon a massive room. Huge lights hang from the ceiling and fill the windowless room with a blaring, white light. In the left corner, the tower of the chimney widens to the base where a mechanised conveyer belt rolls into the mouth of a roaring fire. The brunt of the heat is cut off by a red latch covering the mouth. The rest of the room is rather empty, save for someone in blue scrubs busying over a body laid out on a slab not far from the beginning of the conveyer belt.

Someone who Mac presumes to be a mortician removes a full blood bag from a stand, opens up a fridge on wheels which steams the moment the lid is opened, and places the bag on top of a very full pile inside the fridge. He closes the fridge securely, then pulls out an empty blood bag from a side compartment and busies himself with attaching the new bag to the stand.

Mac jumps when he hears a ringtone play and he touches his phone in his pocket, making sure that it’s not his.

“Hi hun,” The mortician says into his mobile. His voice bounces off the walls of the room making him sound louder than normal. “Oof, I’m so sorry that I’ve kept you up -- This one’s just taking longer to drain -- There’s just so much blood, it’s the most I’ve ever seen! And it’s blood type O- which is great because we need more -- okay, ya -- I’m sorry hun -- This should be the last bag, then I’ll get this murderer into the furnace. Don’t wait up for me, bye!”

Giddy with excitement about potentially being able to see a body being incinerated, Mac edges closer to the rails and crouches beside some boxes. With one hand still clamped over his nose and mouth, Mac watches the mortician hang up his cell  and try to untangle the blood bag tubes before pricking the needle into the arm of the dead body. Or at least, Mac assumes the person must be dead. He _looks_ dead, all pale and still. Plus, looks like he was shot three times in the chest and twice in the face. Thankfully the mortician has covered up the guy’s lower half of the body. Mac likes dick but he doesn’t like dead, old man dick.

Seconds after the mortician begins draining the blood, a door from somewhere that Mac can’t see slams open. Another second passes and suddenly Dennis runs out of nowhere, kicks the IV away which in turn detaches from the dead body, and tackles the mortician to the ground. The sheer amount of speed and agility is hard to digest since Mac finds it incredibly unbelievable that it’s actually Dennis down there. All the same, it makes it impossible to turn away from what he witnesses there in that sweltering, stinky mortuary.

From up in the balcony, viewing the turn of events down below, he feels somewhat removed from the violence unfolding, as if he’s watching a movie. A movie that he can smell and taste on his tongue when he watches Dennis tear the mortician apart, limb from limb. Dennis then lifts the body and drops it on top of the dead one on the slab. Blood bursts out of the guy’s veins, washing the dead body in a literal bloodbath. There’s so much blood, so many body parts twisted the wrong way (including Dennis’ fingers), and the stench of it all mixing with the flames and the ash makes Mac’s stomach churn. Bile gurgles up his throat, on the palette of his tongue. And if things couldn’t get any more disgusting, Mac watches Dennis actually grab the mortician’s severed head and dangle it over the dead body’s mouth, allowing for the blood gushing at the jugular to pour down the dead body’s throat.

Mac can’t hold it anymore. He stumbles backwards, grabs onto the nearest box and empties the contents of his stomach.

 _This can’t be real_ , he thinks. _That can’t be Dennis._

Mac wrenches out that last of what’s in his stomach with his fists tearing through the walls of the cardboard box. Afterwards, he sits back on his heels, takes a deep breath. The same sick smell fills his nostrils. He would barf again in that instant if he had anything left to cough up. Sweat drips off his forehead. His hair sticking to his neck. His whole body shakes as he drags himself back toward the balcony edge, his knees bumping over the little gaps in the grates. And he looks down at the man with Dennis’ clothes and Dennis’ hair wringing out the blood of a head as if it were as soft as a fruit.

Then Dennis looks up too. Looks directly at him. And Mac would do something if it isn’t for the fact that in that moment, the dead body _moves_ like something out of _The Exorcist_. Head rolling on a stiff neck, jaw gnashing, elbows and knees jolting and a blood curdling growl the makes Mac feel dead inside. Dennis steps back, drops the severed head on the ground in exchange for a different body part. Dennis then moves back to what Mac had assumed was a dead body and continues to wrangle a fountain of blood out of it. All the while, the body on the slab jolts violently, colour returning to the skin, and slowly the body seems healthy enough to sit up on its own.

The not-dead guy gnashes his teeth some more, a gravelly growl tearing out of his mouth as he snatches the leg dangling above him, a short maniacal laugh rising from him before he sinks his teeth into the flesh. Spellbound by the sight, Mac remains totally still as he watches the demon below sucking blood out of some dude’s leg, and Dennis just standing there doing _nothing_ . Like he’s not even scared. Mac admits that it is totally badass, but _Dennis_ isn’t badass. Dennis needs to get the hell out of there!

The demon dude throws the leg away when he’s done with it and lifts his arms up in the air to stretch. Mac swears that he saw three bullet holes in the guy’s chest and two in the face before, but there doesn’t seem to be any damage now.

After yawning, the man glances at Mac, then at Dennis, a quick look which still manages to turn Mac’s body inside out. When he speaks, it’s in a deep drawl which echoes in the atmospheric room. “You brought dessert. Bring him down.”

Mac’s throat goes drier than his burning, empty stomach when he hears those words. Dennis looks up at him, and before anyone can say anything else, Mac scrambles off the balcony and back down the hall. His boots hammer down the linoleum floors, heart leaping out of his throat, a sense that he’s being chased, a monster drenched in blood on his heels. So he keeps running. Runs out of the mortuary. Runs across the street. Runs down the slope through the trees and slips on the dewy grass and runs back up through the shrubs to Mandy’s street. Blue and red lights cycle through the neighborhood. Cop cars are parked in front of a house not far from Mandy’s, and one parked squarely behind the car that he and Dennis stole.

The trees rustle behind him. Sirens trilling down the street. Pyjama clad residents shuffle out of their homes, muttering gossip gloved in sleep.

Mac clutches his pounding head. “I have to get out of this town!!”

But he can’t do anything with the cops so close. His only option is to keep moving. So he does. He runs until he can’t run anymore and walks until blisters burst in his boots and trudges onto a wide baseball field where he collapses, right in the centre. Dawn barely breaking. His mouth dry and heart tired and the mystery of Hollywood waiting for him. And maybe when he wakes, he’ll realise it was all a dream. It’s all too messed up to be reality.


	10. Sacrificial Lamb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a reminder, [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jur5Dee55RA) is how don died in Fargo (TV), although the video doesn’t include best part where malvo asks don (dennis) to get something out of the duffle bag. So don opens the bag and asks "What’s with all the duct tape?" before malvo hits him in the head with a blender... Dennis has never been so wronged by duct tape in his life. 
> 
> i also made a minor error in the previous chapter - Malvo gets shot three times in the chest (by Gus Grimly) and twice in the face. [(gif of Malvo's last breath - blood/gore)](https://uproxx.files.wordpress.com/2014/06/mal-4.gif?w=650&h=365). Also note that Malvo has grey hair now.

As soon as he had felt his calling, it had been as if autonomy over his own body had begun to dissolve. His feet had adopted minds of their own in taking him to wherever he was being called to, and trying to resist in anyway had not only been very difficult, but also very  _ painful _ . Although he had no intention to ‘finish the job’ with Mac, he had wanted to yell at the man for his gross indecency – for following him outside without cleaning the mess he had left on Mac’s stomach. Only, when he had tried to speak to Mac, the longer he had stood in the opposite direction than where he was being pulled to, it had felt as if his muscles were being torn from his skeleton.

To avoid such excruciating pain, he had no choice but to follow the course he was being pulled along. He could not speak or move out of line, he couldn’t even cry out in pain when he broke his hand to open the locked door to the mortuary. Yet, when his ‘master’ suggests to call Mac down to help regain full strength, a great fire swells within Dennis with such ferocity to match the strength of the furnace.

He holds his position, fiercely refusing to follow through with the command. He bites back the words the old man had wished to come out of his mouth, clamping his jaws shut, his gums hurting from the pressure. Blood rushes to his ears, a numbness encompassing his body as if his flesh has ceased to exist and his blood and bones and organs are trembling in their precarious positions.

The man looks at him with eyes so dark in this brightly lit room, so black that no light can be shone through and in hand, no shadow be cast from the depths of the iris.

“You know what you are, don’t you?” He asks evenly.

The tension vibrating around his body dissipates instantly, leaving Dennis to clutch his chest and heave for breath. He doesn’t have to look up to know that Mac has left the building because he can no longer smell the close proximity of Mac’s blood. All he can smell is the stench of this hot room mixing with the scent of bodies at various levels of decaying and regeneration; the old, rotten flesh had healed with the blood of the fresh which now bubbles across the heated tiles in splattered pools. 

When Dennis doesn’t reply, the old man swings his legs off the metal slab, the blood stained cloth clinging to his withered, naked body. Dennis looks away but his eyes meet the sight of the body he had just torn to pieces. He’d been asked to kill and he’d been so blind to it, as if his soul had lifted from his body and all he could do was watch as his own hands and teeth had killed a human being. It wasn’t like he hadn’t killed before, but he hadn’t  _ wanted _ to, this time. He’d  _ had  _ to, though. He’d been  _ ordered _ to. And he had to face the fact that at some point during the whole mess, his soul had rejoined his body and he’d just gone with it. He’d let servitude rule his able body in following the wishes his ‘master’ had sent in his mind. 

And he’d  _ enjoyed _ it. Enjoyed the sound that the bones made when they broke, and the squelch when he stamped the man’s heart into mush, and enjoyed the way one’s death made him feel  _ alive _ . Just as it had in the Philadelphia Hospital, red and browns splayed murky in the white light of the morgue.

“Don, do you know what you are?”

Dennis looks at him. A wiry man, grey hair matted on a small head, large, rounded nose, plump lips bound by wrinkles. Of course, Dennis knows exactly who this man is, only when he’d played Don Chumph and met the guy, it had been before he’d gone grey and sported that tragic bowl cut. Now, the same man who had set Don Chumph up - in all his glory - to die, Lorne Malvo, his supposed ‘master’, looks like a twig without an oversized fur coat cloaking his body. This flake of a guy, this wrinkled, withered old man is the guy who made him into the monster that he is today. And as harmless as the man looks, he has the ability to grip Dennis with such invisible force that he knows that getting to wrap his hands around the guy’s throat and demand answers is not going to be an easy feat. 

“Don’t make me ask again, son,” Lorne Malvo says tersely.

“Yes, I figured it out,” Dennis snaps, “And don’t call me ‘son’, I’m not your son.”

Surprise flicker’s through Malvo’s facial expression, but his face quickly slackens as he falls into deep thought. Dennis had torn that human to pieces so easily. How could it be any harder to destroy the man who made him this way? He tries to move forward while Malvo seems to be not paying attention, but Malvo’s eyes quickly dart to Dennis’ and it’s warning enough. He steps down. 

After some time of thoughtful silence, Malvo says, “I’m going to ask one question and say two statements. Your choice.”

Dennis crosses his arms. “I don’t care.”

Unflinchingly, he questions, “Are you ready to tell me your real name?”

“What?”

The man smiles with his lips only, his eyes completely blank. “Do you really think I would turn someone like Don Chumph? He wouldn’t know what to do with eternity. He asked for 40k from a millionaire for Christ’s sake,” Malvo says flatly. He adds thoughtfully, but by no means sincerely, “That was a good touch, by the way, the ND accent too.”

“Wait, you knew I was role playing?”

Malvo pauses to suck on a particularly damp patch of the white cloth that had been on his lap, a glint in his eye as a form of reply.

Dennis’ lips turn sour, his body shaking with rage. “Then why the hell didn’t you tell me if it was part of the plan? Did you at least get the money?”

Malvo sucks the blood from the fabric, then slides off the slab and ties the cloth around his waist like a towel fit for a blood bath. “I turned you for a reason, Dennis. You’re going to do something for me. Something that I can do myself, but that you can do much faster. That’s my first statement, son, I knew that you would be  _ useful _ .”

Dennis snarls. “You owe me 60%!”

“I owed Don Chumph  _ 40% _ ,” Malvo says as he walks toward him. When he had been sitting on the slab, shoulders hunched, he’d looked so small. Now, as he approached Dennis, he realises that Malvo is taller than him by a couple of inches. “The second statement,  _ Dennis _ , is that I need clothes and a car. Get me these things.”

Instantly Dennis’ body feels wracked with numbness once more as he tries to fight following through with the command. “Do it yourself.”

Malvo’s eyes narrow. “As your master, I command you.”

The feeling of being plucked and pulled as if his innards were ropes in a game of tug-o-war intensifies the more Dennis fights back. His skin feels like it’s being stretched off his bones, eyes watering, muscles pulling backward out of their homes, yet he refuses to budge. Boiling hot blood begins to gush out of his ears. He can feel the hot liquid spill out over his shoulders and run down underneath his shirt, bursting out of his nose now too, welling out of the gaps in his teeth the more he fights. The smell of steel overpowers everything else.

The corners of Malvo’s lips turn up into an empty, crimson grin. “You display a strong level of determination, Dennis,” Malvo steps in front of Dennis despite the blood pouring from his orifices like a faulty waterfall. His bare toes bump against Dennis’ sneakers, the canvas fabric drenched with blood in a pool around his feet. “Why are you fighting? What is it that you want so badly? Be truthful”

Blood continues to pour out of him, the longer he lets it go on, the weaker he becomes. Heat descending out of him, liquidised steel falling from his veins, his lungs so dry and twisted that he can’t breathe, he can barely stand up either, his vision in twos, threes, fours. Malvo skims the words out of him like broth of hot soup.  

“I want you to teach me how to turn him.”

“ _ Him _ ?” Malvo says, glancing up at the balcony where Mac had just been poorly hiding, “You want to turn your friend? Tell me why.”

Dennis snorts blood from his nose, not wanting to speak, but it’s wrenched out of him. “I can’t live in this world without him.”

Malvo presses his lips together. “Love?”

Again, powerless, Dennis says, “No. My plan was to test the limits of being a vampire on him. And then use what I know against him.”

“Ah, it’s about control. You’re an easy man to read, Dennis.”

“You’re  _ making _ me say this,” Dennis growls. 

“Somewhat. It’s your truth.” Then, Malvo smiles, and all of a sudden, the pulling and the bleeding ceases, leaving Dennis ashamed for being so weak. He drops to the ground, blood splashing around him and he grasps at his chest as if it will help him catche his breath sooner. Malvo steps back to observe him with an unreadable look on his face. “Let’s talk about why you want to use your friend. You want to use him because you want to know more about what you are, about what can hurt you, what can kill you, what can supplement your hunger when there’s no human around to feast on. You want to know why you can’t eat cheeseburgers anymore, why you can’t sleep, why you can screw longer than 30 seconds.  _ That’s _ why you’re here with your friend, isn’t it?”

Dennis’ vision slides into focus, breath coming easier in dry, strangled coughs. Death slinking away into the shadows leaving Dennis kneeling in no less of a defeated fashion. “Tell me.”

Mavlo eyes him. His voice monotonous. “You are both players in a game you didn’t know you were playing. He is no more worthy of vampirism than you are. Although, you put up a fight like that again and I may change my mind.”

Dennis clutches his chest and gasps, “Twice isn’t enough?”

Malvo pauses. “Were you fighting for him or yourself?”

The pulling twinges again, lightly, a tickle of encouragement. Dennis swallows, blinks spots of blood from his eyes. 

“I’ll kill him when I’m bored with him.”

“Candid,” Malvo replies. He mulls over a thought, then says, “Your time is limited depending on how you follow through with my task. Complete what I need done, then I’ll consider telling you how you can turn your friend.”


	11. (Erstwhile) Minneapolis shopping district

Varga sits in the back seat of the limousine, one leg folded over the other, a small tin filled with toothpicks rests on the flat of his knee. He holds up a compact mirror and picks out the food morsels out of his teeth, paying no mind to any time the uneven road causes the toothpick to prick his soft gums.  

Meemo, at the wheel of the limousine, pulls the long vehicle into an empty loading zone in front of a large 30 storey mega complex. Even with the windows rolled up, Varga can hear the loud whirring of machinery as his construction workers hurry to finish the refurbishments behind the scaffolding. 

He gazes out of the tinted windows and tries to picture large red letters that will read ‘Stussy Supermall’ which will become visible to everyone in a 20 mile radius once the scaffolding comes down. 

He looks back to his mirror and without taking his eyes away from his pale gums, has asks Meemo, “Is this really the biggest one you could find?”

Meemo shuts off the idling engine and says, “Not sure.  _ Yuri  _ had accounts.”

He climbs out of the limo, slams the door shut then comes around to Varga’s side where he knocks on the window with a single knuckle. Varga holds his toothpick between his fingers as he presses the button that lowers the window all the way down. The construction noise billows into the limo, along with a gust of concrete dust. Meemo extends an open palm through the window, on which Varga places a fine cigarette. He then winds the window back up again. 

Meemo takes the white cigarette to his lips and lights it with a zippo, then gazes up at the building as he smokes. Varga can see the exterior well enough from within the limousine. He had imagined a taller building, but Minneapolis was not known for its grandeur -- yet. Later, he will commend Meemo nevertheless. The exterior is an exquisite portrayal of the art deco architectural style, constructed out of yellow sandstone which breaks off into a stepped pyramid almost a third way up. He imagines himself chairing an office in a room at the top level, reigning down on his minions and friends alike who will throw their lives away at anything money can buy. Shopping outlets, food buffets, gambling arcades, and they’ll drag beautiful men and women to their beds. The festivities won’t end there. He has plans to install a theatre for plays and dance, a cinema for filmed media, an aquarium featuring the rarest sea life, and a ski slope dropping five levels within the building. 

His workers have much to complete in the coming months. Varga is confident that his labourers will have no trouble bringing his project to completion -- an appearance of a billion dollar project with a budget only a fifth of that. It will be the greatest economic feat of the early century. 

After Meemo has finished his cigarette, he climbs back into the driver’s seat and clacks in his seatbelt. “I still think we should get reinforced windows,” Meemo says, glancing at Varga through the rearview mirror, “And automatic defense mechanisms for the vampire’s quarters.”

“Unnecessary,” Varge disagrees, taking a toothpick back to his gums. “What is more cost-effective than the protection of human beings? They will be  _ more  _ than eager to empty their pockets here, have a dream of a night and return to their mundane lives healthier and more  _ light-headed _ than before. They’ll get addicted, Meemo. Their addiction will protect us.”

Meemo is silent. He chews the cigarette bud between his teeth.

“This is paradise, my dear child. We will not have to worry about food security for as long as humans love to purchase, gamble, and fornicate.”

“High tech reinforcements couldn’t hurt.”

Without hesitation, Varga launches into a rehearsed speech. “You should know, Meemo, that since our departure from Narwhal, we have been very fortunate to use what money the Gerhardts could offer us to acquire Stussy, and as a reward, we have lined our stakeholder’s pockets with a $200 million dollar benefit of a very successful tax fraud.

“That was but step  _ one _ . Step two, my dear boy, has always been  _ food security _ , has it not? In manufacturing this Supermall, we can make that a  _ reality _ . Once our profits exceed the benchmark quota --  just to ease your qualms -- we  _ may _ invest in further protection. However, I think that you’ll find such mechanisms  _ wildly  _ unnecessary. You underestimate the purchasing power of the dollar versus humans valuing their own pitiful lives.”

Meemo presses the cigarette bud into the cup holder. “Are you not bothered by our recent brush with vampire hunters?”

Varga laughs. “The deaf idiot didn’t even use silver bullets. I doubt he even  _ knew _ who we were. That’s good news for us. It highlights what I have been suspecting for years. They are a dying organisation.” Varga grunts in satisfaction when he expels a particularly stuck portion of food from between his teeth. “Did you not hear? One of our good fellows has wiped out an entire base, all on his own. You have nothing to worry about.”

“The modern age is more dangerous than you think. One day, we will be exposed.”

“And that is the purpose of the Supermall, my dear boy. Pitchfork peasants,” Varga says, “It is a dangerous world for men of standing. Human beings, to each other, you see, have no inherent value other than the money they earn. So let them come to our halls of enjoyment and pleasure, let them spend, spend, spend. Let them dream and cry and screw, let us feed on them and send them away blessed with healing. Our palace will become a place of worship, a place of joy and indulgence. What human would endanger what good money can buy?”

Meemo turns on the engine and folds his arms afterwards. Varga flashes a smile at himself in his mirror, but spots another mark in his teeth.

“Why don’t you summon him?” Meemo asks. 

“Who?” Varga asks airily.

“Yuri,” Meemo replies. 

Varga nagles his mirror in such a way to block out the shape of Meemo in his peripheral vision. Varga hasn’t had to make much effort to exemplify to Meemo that he is the most formidable vampire in the world. The last thing that he wants is to let the boy know that, in fact, there are more formidable foes than himself. Yuri’s ‘disappearance’ cannot be helped, and as such, Meemo mustn’t know how  _ easily _ Yrui unravelled himself form Varga’s command lest he get ideas himself. 

Meemo pauses, and Varga thinks he almost sounds upset when he asks, “Did you kill him?” 

“No! No,” Varga replies, but shudders at his hasty response. He packs away his toothpicks and sighs. “You took a shot for me, Meemo. You displayed a level of loyalty that is innate in a fellow vampire. Yuri showed his disloyalty by  _ fleeing _ . Probably chasing Helga, or some woman-”

“Yuri was not-”

“-Half a millennia old, he was. He should’ve known better than to chase what he can’t have. And for that  _ ignorance _ , he will not grace my company again. He is  _ outlawed _ .”

When Varga finishes, Meemo says nothing in reply. He takes that as evidence that his vigorous speech as been enough to convince Meemo to ask no further questions. Consequently, he climbs out of the limousine, exposing himself to the brash cacophony of noise and filth that the construction expels upon the street, then turns to tap the roof of the vehicle as a sign for Meemo to take off. 

“Go find a place to stow the limo,” He tells Meemo, “I’ll summon you after I have inspected the interiors of this fine building.”

Before Meemo moves off, he rolls down his window and questions him, “Do you still feel him?”

Varga’s face goes thin. He stands up straight and shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “Just drive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm afraid i'm going to have to take a short haitus for this fic. It's not the place I wanted to leave people waiting at but it's the last complete chapter I have before I get into writing Dee's rise to power/Malvo's mission. I'm hoping to return with more updates after the busy holiday period is over - perhaps mid/late January! happy early holidays to anyone who's reading this :D and please come chat to me on my tumblr macdenmarco anytime :)


	12. Nightmusic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lawyer investigates a lead in trying to find the exile who knows sign language in order to manipulate his deaf bargaining chip, Wes Wrench.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, i'm back! sorry that it's been a while! I have some chapters ready to go now which i'll be uploading once a week as usual. 
> 
> For the next five or so chapters, it will be very much focused on what's happening in Philadelphia and Dee. I was going to wait until a more macdennis centric chapter was ready to go, but i think it might be a while! So as a special treat, I have included some beautiful fan art by the AMAZING [Casassin](https://casassin.tumblr.com)! Thank you again for drawing fan art for this fic! I still can't believe it's true!!

The Captain adjusts his tie on his suit before walking into the Construction Supply shipping centre. It feels good to be in a fine, pressed suit again. He has had to stop wearing his designer suits in the dungeon because his lazy hunters seem to enjoy being caked in dust. He has yelled at them a good number of times and still, the level of cleanliness has not improved. It’s a problem that he expects will change sooner than he had expected, thanks to his bid to trade off Wrench to Minneapolis for supplies and more staff. He’ll be able to command far more respect once that is achieved.

For now, he can enjoy being above ground. Despite the fact that he’s technically his own boss, he barely gets to leave the dungeon. He savours smelling the fresh air, seeing the sunlight. It’s a luxury he used to take for granted as a lawyer, and even then he was working for someone else. He doesn’t have to report to anyone now except the Council and he’s already very much in their good books. They definitely don’t need to know that he’s going to be employing an exile, if only for a short time. They’ll simply be pleased with his swift and efficient work at rebuilding what Artemis had run into the ground. The Pennsylvania jurisdiction for vampire hunters will be as strong and populous as it was before Artemis took over, and he’ll be able to take all of the glory for that.

But before he can see the sunlight every day, he needs to find this exile who supposedly knows sign language, which is precisely why he is at the Mara Construction Supply which is where his brother, his emergency contact, is currently employed. 

“Davy!” An older, white haired man shouts from across the shipping room, “Don’t just leave him standing there. Go and meet our new client!”

“Sorry Dad! Right away!” Davy replies, jumping to in a very stiff, militaristic fashion. 

The Captain smirks as he watches Davy Mara, a very stocky redhead with a sunburnt face, march over to him and stick his hand out. The Captain lowers his gaze at the outstretched hand, then gingerly shakes it. 

“Mr Grayson, it’s good to-”

The Captain cuts him off. “I’m looking for your brother, Matthew Mara. Do you know where he is?”

Davy squints at The Captain, his eyes running over the neat black suit and falling to shiny black shoes. “You’re a cop, aren’t you? You’re after my brother? I KNEW IT! I knew that LOSER was into some sketchy shit. What’s that junkie done? Don’t tell me he’s screwed a dog again.”

The Captain grimaces. 

“Oh my god,  _ worse _ ?” Davy gasps, “Has he screwed a corpse? That goddamn street rat! He’s screwed a goddamn corpse hasn’t he?!”

The Captain winces, trying not to conjure the image in his mind. “I don’t care what he has done, I’m just looking for him. I presume he does not work here.”

“No,” Davy laughs derisively, “That loser walked out of here months ago, with a tail between his legs.” Davy laughs uncontrollably. “Get it? Because he made out with a dog?!”

“Can you give me his address?”

“Uh, Philly. Duh.”

The Captain rolls his eyes. He could already tell he wasn’t going to get anything useful out of this man. The older man who had ordered Davy to speak with The Captain in the first place wanders over, marking things off on a checklist as if to appear very busy. 

“Is my son treating you right, Mr Grayson?”

“I’m not Mr Grayson, my name is-”

“He’s looking for Matty, Dad!” 

“Matthew,” the Dad says sourly, “My son is a dirty hobo.”

Davy continues to rattle off a series of jokes about where his homeless brother would likely be living, each equally as vulgar as the next, and The Captain quickly realises he is going to gain no more fruitful information from Matthew’s own family. He leaves the brother making a fool of himself in front of his father and walks back to his car, his nails digging into his palms. Sure, he can keep Wrench locked up as long as he damn pleases, but he doesn’t have the time or the resources to scour the streets of Philadelphia himself. If he’s going to get this done quickly, he’s going to have to go to the source of the problem… which means contacting Artemis Dubois himself. 

 

 

Artemis’ post-captain of a secret vampire hunter agency is no secret to those within the business. ‘Ex-Captain takes up DJ gig.’ The story is mocked by every hunter The Captain has ever met, except of course, for the Pennsylvania folk who so marvel their ex-Captain. He doesn’t get it, but it’s not his job to understand why they wanted to break the rules of vampire hunters that have been in place for thousands of years. He just needs to make sure that he doesn’t lose the few human resources he has left in this transitional period. Soon, no vampire will dare set foot in Philadelphia knowing the strength of the hunter’s HQ. 

Finding the woman is ridiculously easy. Gloria would be astounded at the efficiency of a quick google search had she not be a technophobe. All it takes is a few clicks and a peruse around the nightclub area of Philadelphia to discover that Artemis has a regular slot at a nightclub. She DJs under the name Beef and Cheddar, which is a fitting name for the gross and despicable woman that she is. Coincidentally she is performing the evening he arrives. Rather than staking out the back of house like a crazed groupie, he decides to pay the overpriced entry into the club. Unfortunately this does mean that he has to experience being inside a dingy nightclub, so prefers to take a seat at the back while he waits for Artemis to make her appearance. 

If he didn’t have to be here, he’d be out the door without a second thought because there are a number of unsettling things about the club. For one, it’s quite poorly lit. The crowd is a small collective of weirdos doing suspicious things in dark nooks. Things that he’d rather not see, and therefore thankful that the darkness shrouds much of their activities. The Captain checks his phone again to make sure that he’s in the right place, disappointed to confirm that he, in fact, is. 

Eventually, the trance music that plays over the speakers dulls and two large shadows emerge on the stage. One very tall and thin, another very short and squat. The Captain had not personally met Artemis, but he’d heard things about her and can only presume that she is not the tall and thin figure on stage. Who the other person is in the Beef and Cheddar group, he does not care. All he has to do is wait until her performance is over and he can corner Artemis. 

Easier said than done because the moment the music begins, it’s accompanied by an awful retching. At first it’s simply unpleasant, but very quickly becomes absolutely unbearable. The Captain clamps his hands over his ears, pressing his hands harder when he hears the music get louder, either to drown out the retching sounds or simply annoy every listener. He pushes out of his chair and tries to get as far away from the stage as possible. He moves toward the bar, squinting and grimacing, trying not to stumble as he flees from the inescapable sound. 

“How on earth can this be music?!” He exclaims. In the dim lighting, he spots a bartender insert earplugs into her ears. He scrambles over to the bar and grabs at her. “Give me those!” 

“Hey!” The bartender shouts, leaping away from him. 

The Captain snarls. He pulls himself off the bar and pats around for napkins or a goddamn menu that he can rip up and shove in his ears. The bartender stares at him, then fishes an enclosed packet of earplugs out of her pocket and tosses them on the bar. 

“If you really want to stay, you can use those!” 

The Captain snatches the bag and rips it open, having to fumble on the ground when one of the buds falls out. He lets out a sigh when the earplugs are in. The awful retching and terrible music accompaniment is successfully reduced to a dull buzz. He’d rather it be silenced altogether, but he’ll take partially muted. He takes a seat at the bar and drops his face in his hands. 

“Why don’t you leave? The door’s right there!” The bartender shouts at him. 

He looks up. “Do you say that to all of your customers?” 

“What?!”

The bartender leans on the bar, keenly listening to what The Captain is saying. He tries not to look at her boobs, and instead focuses on reading her lips. He can feel her eyes on his as well, and he suspects she cannot hear what he’s saying at all. The music seems to get louder and louder, and, the retching becoming less human, a noise he’s sure he’ll be having nightmares about. 

He clears his throat in order to speak louder. “Why is this a regular act if it’s driving away your customers?”

She shrugs. 

“There’s only one bar I’ve seen with so few people in it at this time of night and that was run by a bunch of idiot criminals. Clearly, you’ve lost some of your clientele because of this.” When she doesn’t make a response, he adds, “When will it be over?”

The bartender squints at him. He sighs and taps his wrist in a watch gesture then nods toward the stage. 

“Nine.”

“Dear God, she’s going to be up there for a whole hour?”

The bartender stands up straight and cocks her head. He’s not sure what’s more infuriating - trying to converse with someone who is capable of hearing him, or trying to converse with a deaf man who refuses to converse in anything but sign language. At least she’s trying to understand him.

“Do you smoke?”

Again, she makes a confused response until The Captain pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. Her face lights up and she points toward a staff exit. The Captain follows. Outside, the night is gloomy and damp, but he’ll take it any day over the hell that was inside that bar. 

“I don’t know how you can work in there,” He says as he lights her a cigarette. 

“She’s only on Thursdays. Every other night is okay. Very busy, great tips.” She smokes, then offers the cigarette to The Captain. 

He takes it from her, but he doesn’t smoke. “What’s baffling to me is that there  _ are _ actually some people in there. Do they  _ enjoy _ the music?”

She shrug. She takes back the unsmoked cigarette and brings it to her lips. “Most of them aren’t of this earth.”

He looks at her. Artemis was known to be foolish, but surely she wouldn’t be foolish enough to tell the public about the existence of vampires. So much has been done to keep the information out of the public eye, a feat increasingly more difficult with developing technology. 

The bartender notices his stunned look. She takes a drag of the cigarette before elaborating. “Most of them are crackheads with their minds on another plane of existence. Can’t tell a chair from an elephant. Besides, our boss won’t stand for Beef and Cheddar being taken off the roster. Artemis, the  _ wizard  _ behind the music, is a patron of the bar,” She says. He picks up on a level of admiration in her voice. Artemis has undoubtedly poisoned her with unnatural thoughts whether she has told the bartender about vampires or not. He begrudgingly waits for her to continue. “She’s done a lot for the area too. Them crackheads in there, she’s helped them get jobs and such.”

“They’re still crackheads though.”

She laughs. “Yeah, they are. But my boss says that it’s the least we can do to let her play once a week. Telling her that we’re axing her would be like preventing Paris Hilton from staying in one of her own hotels.”

“Hasn’t anyone told her that she’s awful?”

“It’s not all bad. I like the music. The actual synth part, not the other part. Sometimes the anorexic chick doesn’t gag for long and she sings. She has an alright voice. Can’t recite lyrics if her life depended on it. All she seems to be capable of doing at a steady pace is retching or screaming about how much she hates her dead brother.”

He doesn’t push the semantics regarding having an act no one actually likes play at an otherwise highly profitable bar, and continues a rather dry, boring conversation with the young girl, just to pass the time. The colour of her hair reminds him of his ex-wife’s. He feels a pang in his heart thinking about how he had been cheated on, and how cripplingly lonely he has been since she had kicked him out. He knows he’s meant to meet someone but the only other women he has met in this god forsaken city has been Gloria Burgle, the stubborn bitch who’s ex-husband left her for another man. He could say that they’re similar, in that respect. Could have something to talk about there, but Gloria is neither attractive nor loyal enough to him to warrant consideration. At least his wife hadn’t left him for another woman. 

The bartender’s boss calls her back inside and The Captain reluctantly returns to the cacophony of death noises within the club. Thankfully, there isn’t much left of their allocated time slot. The Captain beelines his way to the stage the moment the music switches from the turntable to the stereo speakers. The skinny woman seems to have the same idea as The Captain, because she, too, charges over to Artemis with incredible speed.

By the time he arrives at the stage, the woman has his back turned to him and is screaming at Artemis.

“You were trying to drown me out again, weren’t you? You bitch!” 

“Hey, hey,” The Captain can hear Artemis saying placatingly, “Frankly, you sound like shit. I need to max the volume to make my music sound good.”

“I can’t believe this!” The woman says, throwing her arms up in the air. “I have improved your so called ‘sound’ so much since we started making music together. The… the  _ audacity _ to tell me I ‘sound like shit’ is disgusting. How dare you, Artemis! I practically  _ made _ you who you are today.”

Artemis laughs hysterically. 

“Don’t you laugh at me! I’m being serious! You said it yourself, you’ve never made better music since I came along.”

“I said that I’ve never made  _ louder _ music!” Artemis says, having to take a seat from laughing so much. 

“Everyone knows that music sounds better when it’s louder.”

“Not true in your case, darling. Look, it’s been terrible, honeybear. You’re fired.”

“I’M  _ FIRED _ ?!”

Artemis looks up at the woman from her chair. “Yup! You can go back to doing stand up at your bar or however you were spending your nights before I decided to help you. I don’t want you around anymore.”

Artemis pushes out of her seat and starts to walk backstage, but is pulled back when the skinny woman latches onto Artemis’ arm. 

“WAIT! Wait, I need this gig! I’ve never felt more  _ alive _ !”

Artemis shrugs. “I don’t care.”

“But wait!” The woman pleads, “What about  _ us _ ?”

“Yeah, that’s gonna end tonight too.”

“But wait, Artemis I think I might…. L… Luh…. Luhhhhh-”

The Captain pinches the bridge of his nose.  _ When can this end _ , he thinks.

Artemis clicks her tongue. “I’m tired of sticking my fingers up your pussy three times a night. I thought that by now we’d be onto some next level kinky shit.”

“What??”

“Charlie told me that Mac was into some kink where he screwed dudes who looked like your brother and Frank convinced me you would totally be into something freaky like that so-”

“FRANK SAID THAT?! WHY WOULD MY STINKING FATHER SAY SOMETHING LIKE THAT?!”

“Anyway, there’s only so long that I, an experienced top, can be entertained by angry, one-sided sex. Come back to me when you’ve learned how to pleasure someone other than yourself.”

The two women continue to fight but at this point, The Captain no longer registers the vitriolic words being thrown around. Frank, Charlie, Dennis… All names that he had tried to forget but faces that he’d sworn to never allow to be in his presence again. Then, the blonde turns to stomp off stage and that’s when The Captain realises that this woman is  _ Dee Reynolds _ .

“Get out of the way, asshole!” She says as she shoves The Captain aside. 

He scowls, rage wracking his body in violent shivers because that woman has a vendetta out for him. She has broken into his old law office on multiple occasions, solicited legal advice without pay, has broken into his car and attempted to blackmail him too. He even tried to screw them right back by claiming legal rights over Paddy’s Pub merchandising and a ridiculous invention one of the imbeciles had conceived called ‘Kitten Mittens’, neither of which have been remotely profitable. The last thing he wants to do is talk to her for whatever reason. It’s too bad he doesn’t have a restraining order against her. 

With Dee exiting the stage, he turns his attention to Artemis, who is sitting at a table rolling a fat joint. Of course she’s gone off the rails since losing her position. Smoking drugs, partnering with the worst human on earth to DJ with. Honestly, her life post-The Order is beyond pitiful. It’s plain laughable. 

The Captain towers over Artemis as he stands in front of her. “Artemis Dubois.”

Artemis looks up and cocks an eyebrow at him and his pressed suit. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m here to ask you some questions, and no, I don’t want your autograph.”

“Clearly you’re not a fan,” Artemis says, her eyes narrowing. “You’re one of the suits at the sex conference, aren’t you?” She sighs dramatically. “Is this about the anal hook? I told you guys that if you wanted to put it where you wanted to put it,” she says, raising her eyebrows suggestively, “You were going to need to  _ wash _ it. Any hairs that you found on that thing weren’t mine. I’m shaving now so you can’t pin your unhygienic disasters on me.” 

“No - why would it be - you  _ are _ Artemis Dubois, right?”

“I am she.” She crosses her arms and begins smoking aggressively. “What do you want?”

He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath before he leans in close. In a hushed voice, he says, “I’m Pennsylvania’s new Captain.”

He straightens, legs apart in an obvious power stance and he crosses his arms as a clear attack on Artemis’ position. She peers up at him, then bursts out laughing. The Captain steps back, having to brush off stray bits of ash that have puffed onto his suit. 

“You’re pulling my leg!” She wheezes. She grasps at her chest with her hand, her joint between her fingers drops cinders onto her and burns tiny holes through her cheap polyester clothes.

He ignores her laughter and speaks evenly. “I’m aware that you know Matthew Mara’s whereabouts.”

He has to wait until her laughter dies down, but still she doesn’t reply. 

“Do you know where Matthew Mara is?” He asks more clearly and very slowly so that Artemis can understand exactly what he’s saying. And quite frankly, he’s sick of asking that same question. 

A shrill, piercing voice cuts over his shoulder. “Why do you want to find that shithead?”

The Captain unintentionally shares Artemis’ annoyed expression. He does not want Artemis to think they’re on the same level, so he turns to face Dee with an appropriately revolted look. 

“Cricket is always lurking behind my bar. He’s such a creep,” She says, making furious eye contact with Artemis. “The stupid idiot has never gotten over me. He probably hands around because he wants to bang me.” When she finishes her little speech, her eyes flicker between The Captain and Artemis, then falls still on The Captain. “...Hey, aren’t you my lawyer?”

“Yes, and  _ you _ still owe me for those sessions you never paid for.”

“Yeah… about that…” Dee begins. Her next move is abrupt, but not entirely unexpected. 

Artemis stands up and the two of them watch Dee as she bolts out of the club. They cringe as she knocks chairs out of the way and both turn away when she runs up the stairs and stumbles on them.

“I’m only going to ask one more time about Matthew Mara.”

“Look, kiddo, sure I helped the guy out years back and sure I see him around town, but I haven’t the slightest idea where he is. Dee would have a better idea than me,” She says, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder. 

The Captain sighs deeply. “Why can’t I ever be rid of these people?”

 

* * *

 

 

  


(Fan art by casassin. [Full size here](https://casassin.tumblr.com/post/169699734023/okay-this-fic-by-macdenmarco-just-has-to-be-one)) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw i deleted the 'marcistahl' pseud, there was literally no point to it and i kept forgetting to swap the username when i commented anyway. hopefully that doesn't make the comments all screwy.
> 
> anyway, i'm also looking for a beta now. hmu on my [tumblr](http://woollenpharaohs.tumblr.com/) if you're interested :) thank you again to lornemalvoofficial for all that you did! i so appreciate it!


	13. Dee-escalate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's a slight repeat of a previous chapter (#7 - Saturdays = Youth) just as a refresher as to what Dee is up to, and how her story fits in with the overall timeline. The next few chapters will mostly be things happening concurrently, and then we'll see everything coming together!  
> For that reason, there won't be a Mac/Dennis centric chapter for three or four chapters... I'm guessing that if you've gotten this far, you're okay with reading about Dee and the side characters that support her side of the story. Anyway, i'll shut up now! hope you enjoy this chapter :D

“Now, Dee,” Mandy interrupts with a firm voice, “I have always appreciated our correspondence, but with the way things are going now, I have half the heart to box all of Dennis’ belongings and post it to you myself.”

“Well obviously I don’t have the time or a GODDAMN CAR to drive up there and get it myself you dumb bitch!” Dee snaps.

She gets off her bed in a huff, and in doing so, the coke she had perched on her thigh dispenses over her carpet. She drops to the ground, pinches her phone between her shoulder and cheek and tries to scrape the powder out of the carpet and into her palms.   
“Great. I’ll forward you the postage bill,” Mandy snaps before hanging up.   
“I’M NOT PAYING FOR THAT!” Dee screams into her phone.

Her phone drops to the ground, lighting up to notify her that the call has ended. She claws at the carpet and licks her hand. It doesn’t taste good but nothing tastes good anymore. She sits up and redials Mandy, tapping her knee frantically while she waits for the phone to be answered. When Mandy has the audacity to direct her call to voicemail, Dee slams her phone into the side of the mattress. It bounces off and clatters along the floor.

She hears a crack. And screams.

 

 

Dee kicks open the door to Paddy’s with such force that it swings back and slams against the wall. The windows tremble in their frames, and rather than being frightened by the noise, it makes her feel powerful. She lifts her chin high, fists balled at her sides, and sweeps her gaze around the pub. It looks like it has been turned upside down. It’s not her fault. Mac was meant to lock up last. Mac, or Charlie, or someone else. Not her.

All the alcohol has been robbed. The register has been turned upside down and lays in pieces as a centrepiece to the room. Frank never transferred Dennis’ shares to her, the rightful owner. He stole them all for himself. Then to add salt to the wound, he won millions off suing the hospital and took himself and Charlie on a cruise. Without her.

An image of Dennis’ mangled body flashes into her mind. Limbs torn to shreds. They couldn’t even sew him back together properly. There were parts missing. There were parts of her twin brother _missing_.

She’s fine. She’s good.

Dee marches into the office. The safe has been knocked over but it remains locked. There better still be money inside. Frank and Charlie wouldn’t have needed it when they ran off to the cruise without her.  As if she would like to be trapped on a ship with them though. All she wants is the money. The money that _she_ deserves because on top of being screwed over by her own family, she has Mandy breathing down her back from all the way in shitty North Dakota or wherever the hell she is now, all because Mac, that dickhole, stole her car and trashed it. There’s no way in hell she’s paying for Dennis’ stuff to be delivered. And there’s _no way_ that Mac is going to get away with not reimbursing her with a brand new car.

She keys into the safe. Not much is left. Others must have been touching it. She takes what’s hers. Shovels all of it into her bag. Every last coin. It isn’t enough to cover what she’s owed, but it’s enough to buy something that’s going to make her feel good.

Before walking out of Paddy’s, she has one last scramble for alcohol. She finds a bottle that’s half empty, and empties it within seconds as she sculls it all on her way out.

“Bastards! I’m gonna… I’m gonna…”

She sways. She doesn’t register the bottle slipping from her hand and smashing over the ground as she clutches onto the doorframe. Stomach rising to her tonsils. Bile shoots out of her mouth and coats the shattered glass. She stumbles out onto the street. Her bag falls open and coins tink along the concrete. A loud gasp from down the street when the cash floats to the ground.

She swivels and snarls. The light so bright. Another gasp. Husky, like one she’d grown accustomed to, of late. Heavy breathing. Artemis liked to eat her out. She was good at it, too. Better than any hopeless man she had been with. Men only knew how to rub clits as if they were trying to rub rocks together to make fire. And the fire hurt, the way they did it, when the fire finally came. That’s why she never liked men going near her pussy with anything but their dicks. But Artemis. She knew her way around a woman’s body. Gasping, heady. Artemis found joy in channeling the anger that rolled out of Dee and transmuting it into passion. Birth, to mouth. Ouroboros.

The sun bursts around a shadowy figure. A thief come to snatch what’s hers. Her soul, her drugs, her money scattered over the ground. She turns her back to the shape and scrambles to shove the coins back into her bag.  Stands up, pulls her bag tight to her body. Mangled. Bloodless and pale.

Broken.

She doesn’t give a shit that he left. Having Dennis in ND meant her rise to power was clear cut, then Dennis had to get himself _killed_. The bag feels hard and lumpy. She holds it tight, heavy on her heart. Her throat is parched. She needs more crack to make the dryness and the roughness and the hard edges soften. Enough to last until Mac, or Frank or Charlie to comes back so that she can kill them with unbound rage. If her drug dealer doesn’t supply her, she’ll kill him for it. She’ll do it. She would kill Dennis again for having the audacity to die if she could.

“Dee!”

So bright, so burnt. Ugly. She turns away from the shadow. Her dead brother. Betrayal. Fire encompasses her very being because he died _before_ her. He’s meant to mourn for her, not the other way around.

Everyone’s talking about how much they miss Dennis. Oh, Dennis, he was so handsome. Oh, Dennis, he was… What was he? She loved him. He shouldn’t be dead. She’ll never forgive him for dying. For getting himself stuck into some hairbrained scheme that got him _shot_ to pieces. The last she saw of his face…

His eyes are meant to be blue, not white. Her hand on his cheek. His skin is meant to be soft, but not this soft. Weak skin tissue, scars look like badly spread cake icing. A cherry on top.

“Get off me!”

Her ass hurts. She blinks, confused to find herself on the ground. Looking up, she sees Rickety Cricket scowling down at her. That guy, he’s always lurking around the back of her bar because he never got over her. They’re always like that, always crawling, always begging to be with her. They can’t get enough of her… then why… why does she care?

“Cricket… have you got any-” She swallows bile before speaking again. “Crack? I’ve got money for the crack.”

She throws a handful of money at him and waits. The sun beats down on her. Too bright. Sweat running down her neck. Her face feels like it’s melting off her perfect facial structure. She never went down on Artemis. Is that why that bitch is mad? Because she didn’t want to put her lips on Artemis’ fat pussy?

Cricket seizes her shoulders and shakes her. The inverted effect of shaking a snow globe. Blurriness becomes clear. Who she thought was her drug dealer leering over her, is actually…

“Cricket?”

“WHERE’S MY BABY?!” The Waitress cries over and over again, still shaking Dee.

The loudness in her voice flicks on a switch, coinciding with the sight of a shadow slinking down the alleyway behind The Waitress.

“WHERE’S MY CRACK?!”

Dee scrambles to her feet and pushes the dumb bitch out of her way. She hugs her bag to her chest. It feels full. Her heart is empty. Sweat trickles down her back. She’s hearing voices. Screaming, laughing, crying. Which ones are real? Which one is her? She wrenches her eyes shut for a moment, running her tongue over her gums. At the corner of the alleyway she can hear The Waitress behind her, Cricket down the alleyway and someone else. Someone here to steal what’s hers.

She sneaks along the wall, quietly, stealthily.

“You’re going to give me what I want,” The guy is saying to Cricket.

“If you want to do butt-stuff I’m not taking any more than two inches these days,” Cricket responds.

“Not that!”

“Oh, you want drugs? I have a new shipment of some nice, white sleets - AGH!”

Dee leaps off the wall and wrangles one arm around Cricket’s neck into a tight lock.

“GET YOUR DRUGS SOMEWHERE ELSE, SHITSTAIN!” Dee screams at the guy.

She can barely see him. So bright.

“Jesus Christ! It’s a new day, why do I have to see you people everywhere I go?”

Cricket struggles in her arms and she scissors her legs around to keep the man still.

“Let go of him, I just need him to-” The familiar man’s voice gets cut off when he makes the wrong move.

He reaches to grab Cricket away from her and she yanks Cricket back, clenching her chokehold on Cricket’s neck to tight that he’s gasping to breathe. Sweaty, pink skin. Cricket’s gross scraggly hair sticking to her. The man reaches out again and this time, with the brick wall against her back and the weight of a man in her lap, she lashes out and bites the offender’s forearm. She locks her jaw, teeth almost breaking through skin. She’s so close. To bloodshed, to suffocating a man. If she bit a little longer, tightened her arm a little harder…

_Oh, no, no, no, Sweet Dee, that’s a real low point of yours. Lighting someone on fire? Don’t you have any self control._

She lets go. The man reels, barking out in pain and spewing profanities as he bolts out of the alley. Cricket scampers backward in the trash, garbage the perfume to his body odour, but she can’t let her prey go just yet.

She lunges and grabs Cricket by his ankle, screaming at him, “GIVE ME YOUR CRACK! I WANT YOUR CRACK!” Then as she pulls herself to him, her resolve alters from a screeching animal to sickly sweet. “Cricket, honey, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll let you take me out on a date if you give me all of your crack. That’s a fair trade, don’t you think? You always wanted to date me. It’ll be like a dream come true.”

Cricket’s rolled onto his stomach now. He looks like he’s trying to swim through the trash. Bags falling over, spilling out.

“GOD DAMN IT CRICKET IF YOU DON’T GIVE ME ALL OF YOUR CRACK RIGHT NOW I’LL KILL YOU I SWEAR TO GOD!”

She won’t, although she _could._ She was so close. She had her arm around his neck. He couldn’t breath. The other dickbag was paralysed in fear with his arm crunched between her teeth. The windows trembling in their panes. Her brother’s dead body. “I’m sorry, did I scare you? You just have to give me your crack, Cricket, it’s so easy. Just hand it over, it’s all that you have to do. Just give me your crack.”

Give me your crack. I want the crack. My phone cracked. I need money for the. For the. To buy a new one. Mac cocked my car up. Cracked my. He’s gonna… buy a new one. Can I buy a new crack?

 

 

She wakes up on the floor of Paddy’s. Glass shattered around her. She has a killer headache. It sears her forehead and temples with energy that channels both beneath and above the flesh. A sunburn on top, a hangover underneath.

“Charlie?! Get me some water!”

She waits. And waits. And her mouth gets drier and the glass turns to sand and she finally remembers that no one is left in this city but her. It doesn’t matter. She’s always been capable of doing her own thing. Always been fine with occupying her time outside of the gang. Who gives a shit where they are or what they’re doing? Sure, she’s alone but she doesn’t need them to have fun, just as they never needed her. Except Dennis. Her brother needed her. Would he rather die than admit that he’s always been weaker than her?

That’s not only unforgivable, it makes everything _boring_. And Dee _hates_ being bored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~hmu on my tumblr: woollenpharaohs if you wanna be my beta :) or if you wanna chat!


	14. T33TH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one today, but the next chapter will definitely make up for it!

The Captain heads into the empty church and makes his way to the back of the hall to the secret entrance. On his way, he pulls at the skin on his arm, carelessly inspecting the damage dealt. People like Deandra Reynolds are exactly why The Order strives to eradicate the planet of vampires. People as violent and erratic as her don’t deserve to live for eternity, wreaking havoc on mortal souls who cannot defend themselves. And Dee isn’t even a vampire! At least, he’s certain that she isn’t. There are unmistakable teeth marks dented into his forearm, but no signs of blood extraction through the incision of fangs. Nevertheless, it hurts as much as he would imagine being bitten by a vampire would feel like.

He’ll have to pay a visit to a doctor to ensure that she hasn’t transmitted some awful street disease to him, but first, he’ll need to request Gloria Burgle to collect the exile considering he seems to be cursed with the continued interference of the Reynolds family. Perhaps if he assigns her a time limit, it will minimise the chances of her running off to elope with Artemis or whatever obsession it is that she has with the woman. The Captain absolutely cannot wait to obtain more staff from Minneapolis with the help of his prisoner’s information. Once he has more staff, he’ll reduce Gloria’s role as much as he can, but unfortunately, for now, he requires her.

Before he goes into the council room, he  stops by the medical bay to clean his wound and apply antiseptic. He can wait for a professional check-up until he has completed his goals. Maybe by then he would have a medic in his employ, as a proper Hunter HQ should have. Wes Wrench is proving to be a difficult person to negotiate with, but once he has persevered with providing a somewhat Order approved translator, he’s really going to be able to turn this place around. 

The Captain is still thinking about all of the positive outcomes that keeping a hunter captive is going to bring him when he walks into the councilroom. He drops the roll of medical tape he had been winding around his arm. It rolls along the ground and falls on its side once it loses momentum. The Captain stares at the open handcuffs on the table, and the empty seat which had last occupied Wrench. 

“GLORIA?!” The Captain bellows, “GLORIA!!!” He steps out into the hallway and shouts at the top of his lungs, “WHERE THE HELL IS MY PRISONER?!”

He rips off the medical tape and leaves the roll sprawled out on the concrete floor. He balls his fists, waiting for a response, his teeth grit. An overwhelming silence encompasses the halls of the Pennsylvania Jurisdiction HQ. He knows there are three other workers around. Where are they?! He’s about to stomp down the hallway and kick down every door until he finds someone he can demand an explanation out of, when he finally hears footsteps moving quietly down hall. They seem to be in no rush, which only infuriates him more. Soon, he spots Gloria emerging out of the dimness toward him, looking nonplussed.

“Gloria! Jesus Christ, I’ve only been gone two days! What have you done with him?!”

“With who? Wrench?” Gloria says airily as she comes to a stop before The Captain. She crosses her arms. “An Order abiding man would know that we can’t keep a human in custody longer than 48 hours.”

“HOW DARE YOU!!” The Captain screams, rage which slips off Gloria’s stone set face. “Never in my life have I encountered an employee as disloyal as you.”

Gloria’s eyebrows raise. “I haven’t done anything wrong, Captain.”

“Then where the hell is Wrench?!”

Gloria bristles past him and peers into the conference room. The Captain’s body shakes with the compulsion to destroy this woman who casually pretends to be so calm and collected in the face of betraying her Captain.

“O, well looks like he didn’t stay on his own volition,” Gloria states, “If you had succeeded in finding the exile earlier we’d be on track with your plan but I suppose this way, no one’s going to have to be learning sign language seeing as Wrench decided not to stick around.”

The Captain snorts out hot air, his top lip curls back and if he didn’t  _ need _ Gloria he would ex-communicate her right then and there.

“You  _ knew _ how important it was that we kept Wrench in custody. Why on earth would you let him go, you stupid bitch!”

Gloria shrugs. “You wanted by the books, didn’t you?” She smiles wanly, nods as a formality and walks away.

So much for using his conquest over Wrench as a means to turn the HQ around. He should have known better to rely on a single man and a single woman to keep him arrested. He sighs, thinking about the filing piling up in  his office. Back to square one...


	15. Walking through that door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was really hard to write... i rewrote it like 4 times but i'm finally happy with it. it is quite dialogue heavy but that's because there's some introducing backstory/explanations going on. Plus there's some sign language used in this chapter (however it's not in the correct syntax for asl translation - sorry) so please let me know if it's quite readable the way i conveyed the use of ASL at the same time as audible dialogue and invasive thoughts. i am open to suggestions if it's confusing!
> 
> I also want to give a huge shout out to asoledad96 for checking in on every update, even between breaks! ( :O <3 ) Seriously, i'm so thankful that there are actually people out there reading this monsterous thing. Also thank you to Casassin too, and for every other silent reader out there. You guys are keeping this thing going! <3 (ok i'll shut up now. go read!)

The Waitress paces her apartment, raking her hands through her hair and she only makes herself stop when she feels a large clump come loose. She stares down at the stands of blonde hair in her palms, knotted and limp, and as pathetic as the mess that is her life. She shakes her hands and lets the hair join the sea of mess beneath her. Clothes strewn all over the carpet, books and jewellery and CDs and used, mouldy towels draped over half empty boxes. A microwave crushes a pile of unopened boxes, the leftovers of a microwave dinner is dried down the front of three layers of boxes. 

_ This is no place to raise a baby _ .

She always hears her mother’s judgemental voice whether she wants to or not. She’s just thankful she’ll never have to hear it in reality so long as her mother doesn’t know where she lives. It’s not her fault though. She’s practically a single Mom jipped by Frank Reynolds who  _ said _ he would set her up in a  _ nice _ apartment, not a one bedroom with sheets of burnt plastic as windows where the glass blew out from a gas explosion. 

_ An amoral mother will raise an amoral child.  _

She knows she has to get out. She has to escape to somewhere where Charlie and Frank and her mother can’t find her. She would have left earlier if she hadn’t been tied to the place with Frank paying the rent for her. At this point, with not a cent to her name, she’s willing to go to a women’s shelter again if it means getting away from the family she had willingly tied herself to by blood. 

Except she can’t leave without her baby. 

_ You’ve abandoned everything you’ve ever been good at, even staying sober. _

It’s  _ not _ her fault. It’s not. It’s Charlie’s. She has a legal agreement with Charlie to take care of their baby separately week by week, but their verbal agreement stipulated that Charlie would look after their baby one night a week. Just one because The Waitress can’t bear to be away from her baby any longer, considering Charlie is a literal baby himself and is incapable of looking after a human big or small any longer than 24 hours. Any time she called to check in, he would get angry at her, so she’d given him the benefit of the doubt and promised not to call. She  _ trusted _ him to take care of their baby on his own because she could see that he  _ does _ want to be a father, but responsible father’s don’t skip out on the agreed time and place to return their kid to her.

She had waited inside Paddy’s, waited and waited. It had taken  _ everything _ to not search around for something to drink. She must have fallen asleep in one of the booths because she remembers waking up to the sound of glass smashing against the ground and she had spotted Dee in the doorway. Her mind had been racing with all the awful things Charlie could have done to her baby. She’d asked Dee if she knew where Charlie was, but she had been a bitch about it as usual. 

She had tried calling Charlie so much that his message bank filled up. The same with Frank. She had even tried calling Mac even though she knows that the number he gave her was wrong, she had felt like she had to try. She refuses to call her mother. With no one else to call, she tries Dee in hopes that she may know something considering she was at Paddy’s when Charlie was meant to be. 

She searches to find Dee’s number, trying to bottle up intrusive thoughts that her mind makes her see, thoughts of Charlie leaving their baby in an air vent or a sewer or a barrel of radioactive materials just to see if it works. 

Seconds after The Waitress dials Dee’s number, she answers and snaps, “Who is this?!” 

“WHERE’S MY BABY?!”

“OH my God,  _ hi _ ,” Dee answers in an overly sweet voice, “It’s so good to hear from you, what are you up to?”

“I’M L-“

“That’s nice! You called at the perfect time!” Dee’s voice begins to lower to her usual, demanding voice.  “I’m doing a special solo show tonight and I need you to clean the bar while I make sure everyone important is on the guest list.”

“YOU CAN-“

“I expect it to be done by 6pm… No, that’s cutting it close. Let’s say 5pm. And don’t tell Artemis about this, I don’t want her ruining my show like she does  _ every  _ time.”

“DEE! CHARLIE STOLE MY BABY!”

“IF YOU DON’T GET THIS DONE I’LL SET YOUR HOUSE ON FIRE!”

“Are you even listening?! My baby is  _ missing _ !!!”

“Oh no!” Dee cries in the fakest voice, “How about I come over and we can talk about our issues like girlfriends?”

“No, I-“

“Okay, I’ll see you later sweetheart!” Dee says, promptly hanging up on her.

“Crazy bitch!”

She shouldn’t be surprised by Dee’s behaviour. Dee is as self-centred as she was in high school, and the last thing The Waitress wants is to witness Deandra Reynolds throwing a temper tantrum in her own home. She’s fairly sure that only Charlie and Frank have any idea where she’s currently living, but just to be safe, she sends Dee a heated text warning her not to come around. Moment after she hits send, she hears a knock on her front door.

She scowls, then yells, “I’m not letting you in, you bitch!”

Typical of Dee to try to wrap her into doing work for her whether she agreed to it or not. She shouldn’t be surprised that Dee actually  _ followed _ her home like a total creep. She’s about to call the police, but before she can even press one number, the knock is repeated. 

This time, The Waitress notices something familiar about the knock. It’s stylised in a certain way that taps into memories she hasn’t thought about in  _ decades _ . A time when her family was bigger than just her and her mother. A large, tightly knit family with uncles and aunts, grandparents and so many cousins, all under the same roof. She remembers that knock… she remembers hearing it against her bedroom door after dinner, an invitation code to go out and play in the halls while the older kids trained. 

She was just a young girl then. She can barely remember what the language lessons, the weapons and physical training were even for. Her mother never liked to talk about it, yet she needlessly guilted The Waitress for squandering her opportunities - as if her mother hadn’t taken her away from learning skill sets that would open so many doors for her.

Strange how no amount of therapy has uncovered this revelation, yet a familiar knock on her door by a person she hates has fleshed it right out. Makes her wonder what else she has omitted from her memory… and why she can’t forget some things…

_ Of all men, you picked  _ him.  _ You useless, desperate slut.  _

The Waitress had wanted a child so badly. Her stomach twists and her heart hammers in her throat. She feels like crying tears that she doesn’t have left in her. Feels like ripping out her hair as a supplement until she goes bald and as ugly as she is on the inside. 

The knock is repeated for a third time, this time with more aggravated force. Suddenly she realises that it  _ can’t _ be Dee because how would she know how to knock in that special way? But if it’s not  _ Dee _ , and instead someone from her family… how will she even know? She hasn’t seen that part of her family in over thirty years. Why would they be coming to her now? Did her mother have something to do with it? Was it another manipulative ploy to show her her worth… If her mother had truly decided that she’s better off dead, why would this hired gun go so far as to knock  _ three _ times? Why not just take her out without the hassle… wasn’t that what her family was good at? Making people disappear without a trace.

The person on the other side jiggles her door handle, and she can hear a manly kind of grunt. She gasps, runs to the door and opens it, exclaiming, “Charlie?!”

In her hasty flurry, she can’t see who’s standing in front of her. She wipes her hand over her face, smearing off any tears and snot gunk that had half dried in places it shouldn’t be, and blinks up at the man who stands ten inches taller than her. Definitely  _ not _ Charlie. 

The man wears dark jeans and a plain blue button down shirt with a black fringe suede jacket over the top. He has blonde, curly hair that leads into lengthened mutton chops which are shaped into large triangles on his jawline. She would roll her eyes at this over-dressed cowboy and slam the door shut on his face if the gaze he’s giving her wasn’t so unsettling. She doesn’t immediately recognised him… but there is something familiar about him. 

She snorts and covers her mouth as she coughs through asking, “Do I know you?”

The man lifts his hands to sign, ‘ _ What?’ _

She stares at his hands. She used to be really good at sign language. It was the only thing she kept up after her mother voluntarily excommunicated them from the family, but she hasn’t communicated in ASL in the longest time. She remembers trying to communicate with the slimy McPoyle sister in high school but the McPoyles had their own version of ASL, indecipherable by anyone outside of their family. Almost 15 years ago she looked after a deaf-mute boy through the Big Brothers Big Sisters of America program but the chances of this guy being the boy she had looked after is next to none considering this man must be around her age. 

Then, he signs her name which plunges her into dumbfounded silence. A memory bubbling to the surface, one that she didn’t know was her’s. Two young boys; a dark blond and a boy with hair so dark that it was almost black, a stark contrast in comparison to the rest of the blond haired family. She recalls that these two boys were inseparable. They ate together, they trained together, they played together. She remembers seeing them chasing each other down the shadowy corridors of some kind of underground labyrinth that seems bizarre to her now, but in her memory she knew that place to be  _ home _ . She remembers that it was because of the deaf-mute boy that she knows ASL in the first place.

_ Stop asking me why I took you away. I had no choice, I’ll tell you that. Those people are heartless murderers. They  _ kill  _ for a living. They have blood on their hands and they  _ don’t care.  _ They made me do horrible things. I refuse to let them make you into a killer too. _

She runs her hands through her hair, cringing when she feels more strands loosening. Is this really the same boy all grown up? Why is he here now? And why should she listen to what he wants when her baby is still missing?

_ ‘Are you my cousin?’  _ She attempts to sign.

The man signs back with vigorous speed.  _  ‘I’m W-E-S. Your ASL is bad. Better than your mother’s.’ _

The Waitress is still trying to work out what name he had spelled, and almost forgets it at the mention of her mother.

“My  _ mother _ ?!” She exclaims as she signs,  _ ‘You saw my mother?!’ _

_ ‘She wouldn’t help. She told me where I could find you.’ _

The Waitress stumbles backward as the implication weighs down on her. Her cousin takes this as an invitation inside her home and marches toward a table. Carelessly, he pushes her things off a chair and sits down, looking at her expectedly, but The Waitress is still trying to understand how her mother knows her new address. All of this time, The Waitress thought she was safe from at least one of the many toxic people in her life… but in reality her mother had been keeping closer tabs on her than she thought.

Her forehead begins to sweat as she begins to contemplate her mother orchestrating this whole thing. Had her mother kidnapped her own grandchild and hired a family hitman to take The Waitress out as yet another ‘valiant’ attempt to give a child a ‘better’ life? The Waitress wouldn’t put that beyond her mother. She has always been consumed with misguided righteousness and an inability to be happy with The Waitress’ achievements. At least  _ that _ part had been uncovered in therapy. 

She perches on a nearby box and drops her head in her hands as she begins laughing, her back jolting with the force of it. 

“This can’t be real,” She mutters to herself. 

As if her mother sending someone to make her disappear isn’t crazy enough… maybe she’s imagined the whole situation? Maybe she had truly gone nuts after Charlie kidnapped her baby that she has imagined her distant cousin coming back into her life just to end it all. To end her life… or Charlie’s. To kill Charlie. 

She sits up and looks to see if her cousin is really there, and grins when she sees Wes sitting there at her table, looking dead at her, expectantly. She gets up and moves toward him, drawn in by his grey-blue eyes, and tries to touch his face but Wes recoils from the touch. It’s enough to let her know he’s really there. 

‘ _ Why did you do that? _ ’ He signs, grimacing.

She signs slowly, shaking. ‘ _ Are you here to kill? _ ’ 

‘ _ Yes _ .’

She swallows. She has to check, just to be sure her mother has nothing to do with this.  _ ‘Did she send you to kill me?’ _

Wes rolls his head on his neck, a sight that is so truly terrifying that The Waitress closes her eyes and holds her breath. She waits, and waits, and only opens her eyes when Wes bangs his fast on the table to grab her attention. 

She looks at him. 

He glares at her. 

_ ‘I’m not here to kill you. I need you to help me. We don’t have much time. Come- _ ’

The Waitress cannot contain laughter once more. It gurgles out of her and she collapses on the seat opposite her cousin, cushioned by clothes she had been meaning to wash. If he’s not here to kill her, then she can use him. She can ask him to kill Charlie.  _ She can ask him to kill Charlie _ . She laughs again because she hasn’t realised until this exact moment that she truly wants Charlie dead. She would be free from him, as free as she is from Dennis, and for the first time in ages she has  _ hope _ . True hope that all of her problems can be solved thanks to this golden opportunity that has fallen into her lap. 

She sits back, grinning at her cousin. She can’t believe she never thought about this option until now. She hadn’t thought about her childhood, or what her family did, in so long that it hadn’t  _ occurred _ to her. Imagine if she had thought to reunite with her family earlier, if just to ask them to do  _ one _ thing. Oh, how her mother would reel if she knew what she’s going to ask him to do.

_ ‘I need you to kill a man.’ _

_ ‘No.’ _

Shocked at the flat, immediate response, The Waitress leans over the table and slams her palm on the glass. The noise scares no one and her cousin simply eyes her. 

_ ‘You O-W-E me,’ _ The Waitress signs. She’s unable to recall how to sign some words, but spelling them out makes them seem more dramatic anyway.

Her cousin leans back in his chair and smirks.  _ ‘For what?’ _

_ ‘For only talking to me when you need me!’ _

Wes shakes his head.  _ ‘I’m putting myself in danger by talking to you. It’s against the rules as much as killing a human is.’ _

The Waitress makes a face. ‘ _ What rules? Don’t you kill people all the time?’ _

_ ‘Yes, and that’s why I’m here. I need you to translate for me at my trial.’ _

_ ‘If I do it, you have to kill a man called C-H-A-R-L-I-E.’ _

_ ‘No.’ _

_ ‘Mom told me that none of you had any problem killing people. Why won’t you kill this one guy?’ _

Wes narrows his eyes. ‘ _ What exactly did your Mom tell you? Did she tell you that she killed our V pawn? Did she tell you that she ruined a plan that was in motion for years? Did she tell you that what she did, altered the system so much that now only a handful of our family are still alive? Your mother betrayed us. She should have been excommunicated far earlier than she was.’ _

The Waitress doesn’t fully understand what he’s saying. For one thing, he is signing very quickly, and for another, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. She focuses on what she knows.  _ ‘Mom E-X-C-O-M voluntarily! You are murderers!’ _

Wes smirks. ‘ _ You’re the one asking me to kill a human.’ _

Hot tears stream down her face. Asking her cousin to kill Charlie  _ is _ a tad extreme but how can she not take the opportunity when it’s presenting itself? ‘ _ C-H-A-R-L-I-E deserves to die. He S-T-O-L-E my baby!’ _

_ ‘I’m sorry,’  _ Wes pauses, his face softening.  _ ‘Some humans deserve to die, but I can’t kill any more humans. I’m in too much trouble with…’ _

The Waitress wipes tears from her face. The last word that her cousin signed doesn’t make sense to her. It’s a combination that looks familiar, but she can’t remember what it means. On top of that, she’s increasingly annoyed how Wes keeps signing ‘humans’ instead of ‘people’ as if there’s a difference.

_ ‘Please, I have to get my baby back.’ _

At that moment, the last person The Waitress wants to see emerges through her front door that she had stupidly left wide open. Dee announces her presence by screaming, “BITCH GET YOUR ASS OUT OF YOUR SHIT HOLE APARTMENT, YOU’VE GOT WORK TO DO!”

She stalks in but stops dead in her tracks when she sees The Waitress sitting with her cousin at the table.

“Who the hell is this?!” Dee shouts, pointing at Wes.

The Waitress stands up. Apparently her home address is no secret to anyone. Frank is likely to blame for this. Maybe she should ask Wes to take Frank out too.

“Dee, get the hell out of my house!” The Waitress says as she tries to push Dee out.

Dee dances out of the way and places her hands on her hips. She’s wearing low rise jeans and she seems to purposefully show off her navel at Wes.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” Dee asks The Waitress, but looks at Wes the whole time.

“No, go away. Weren’t you setting up for a show or something?” The Waitress says as she returns to her seat.

Dee ruffles her hair and pouts her lips. “Can’t do that without a clean bar, now can I?”

The Waitress scowls.

_ ‘Who’s this?’ _ Wes signs.

_ ‘A crazy B-I-T-C-H.’ _

“Hey, I saw that ‘crazy’ thing you just did, you bitch!” Dee says, repeating The Waitress’ action. “Why didn’t you tell me he’s deaf?”

“BECAUSE YOU CAME TO MY HOUSE WITHOUT PERMISSION PRETENDING THAT YOU WANTED TO TALK THROUGH OUR ISSUES LIKE ‘GIRLFRIENDS’ WHICH WAS CLEARLY A LIE TO DRAG ME INTO WHATEVER MESS YOU’RE INVOLVED IN!”

“Hey, that’s unfair! I really thought we could talk about our issues together while we cleaned up the bar.”

“You mean while  _ I _ cleaned up the bar.”

“I was gonna help!”

“Sure,” The Waitress says, folding her arms. “And it wasn’t just going to be you talking about yourself while I did all the work? Just get out of my house will you? I’m busy!” She then turns to her cousin and signs,  _ ‘Sorry.’ _

Dee shrugs. “I guess you don’t want to know where Charlie is then.”

Dee makes to leave, but The Waitress runs after her and kicks her foot on a very full box of something firm enough to stub her toe. 

“Wait!” She calls out. She ignores the smug face Dee pulls when she turns around. “Tell me what you know!”

“I’m only going to tell you if you let me in on whatever’s going on here. I’m bored as shit with the boys out of town.”

The Waitress bites her thumbnail. She looks between Dee and her cousin. From the years knowing (and trying to avoid) Dee, she has learned that it’s always better to go along with whatever Dee says than to go up against her. She wonders what Dee would think if she knew that she was trying to convince her cousin to kill Charlie and possibly Frank too. Maybe she’d want to be in on it. Most likely though, she’ll get bored of the silent exchange and leave.  

_ ‘I don’t have time for this,’ _ Wes signs.

If she ignores Dee, she’ll most likely throw a tantrum and she’ll lose Wes and her opportunity to make some good changes in her life. Reluctantly, she says to Dee,  “You can stay, but you have to tell me what you know first.”

Dee nods. She pulls a box up to the table and sits down with The Waitress and her cousin. The Waitress quietly hopes for all of this to be over with soon. Emotions are running too hot with all three of them being angry and impatient. She just needs peace of mind that her baby is safe. Luckily, it doesn’t look like Dee is going to hold the information over her head, because her once coy face looks very serious.

“Charlie is on a cruise with Frank.”

“A  _ cruise _ ?!”

“Yeah. They left yesterday. I’m guessing because you never called to check up on him like you do every damn minute, he just got on the cruise with your baby without anyone stopping him.”

“Oh my god?! Why didn’t YOU stop him??”

“I WASN’T THERE!” Dee snaps, then tries to retain her cool in front of The Waitress’ cousin. “They didn’t invite me. But that’s what you get for trusting Charlie with an infant.” Dee’s voice turns sweet again and it’s so overly sugar coated that it makes The Waitress wish  _ she _ were deaf. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, I’m sure your baby is in good hands. It’s the fanciest cruise money can buy! I bet it even has a good nursery to look after the kids people want to pretend they don’t have.”

“No, no!” The Waitress cries, getting up to pace the room. “I can’t believe he did this!! What if something happens to my baby! Dee – what cruise is he on? How can I get there? Oh my god, my baby!!”

“You’re going to have to relax because the cruise ship isn’t touching ground for at least six weeks.”

“Six weeks,” The Waitress chokes, turning to gawk at Dee.

“Frank won millions from suing the hospital because of what they did to my brother, and there’s nothing Frank likes more than alcohol, strippers and gambling unless it’s on a cruise liner.”

The Waitress tears at her hair. This is worse than she imagined. Or, not as bad as her baby being left behind in some tight crawling space, but Charlie  _ hates _ leaving Philadelphia. She hadn’t thought he would put an ocean between them!

_ ‘C-H-A-R-L-I-E took my baby on a cruise. He’s probably drunk or high or both! He’s going to kill my baby! This is why you have to kill him first!” _

“Hey! Hey you have to say what you’re saying like a translator!” Dee says, “What’s his name anyway?”

_ ‘I’m not killing him,’  _ Wes signs, _ ‘but I can find him _ .’.

The Waitress snarls. She grips her scalp for a moment, digging her nails in. This is too much. She’s feeling too much, hearing too much. She just needs peace and quiet!

_ ‘Is C-H-A-R the father?’ _

“Come on, translate!” Dee insists.

_‘Translate_ ,’ Wes encourages, _‘It will be good practice.’_

The Waitress cringes.  _ ‘Yes, C-H-A-R is the father. I wish he wasn’t,’ _ then says aloud, “He said he can find Charlie.”

“Well no shit. Charlie’s a giant idiot but it’s not like he has kidnapped your baby.”

“HE DID KIDNAP MY BABY! HE WAS MEANT TO BE AT THE BAR THIS MORNING, THAT WAS OUR AGREEMENT!” She screams at Dee. 

When she stop, Dee blinks like she’d been hit by a huge gust of wind, and it’s the first time that The Waitress really pays attention to Dee’s appearance. The Waitress has struggled with addiction much of her life, but even without out, anyone can take one look at Dee and tell that she is not in a good place. She has deep bags under her eyes, her gums are pale pink and her skin is so dry that there are visible white flakes cracking across her face.

Maybe ten years ago, The Waitress would have had the heart to help Dee. Now, she doesn’t even feel sorry for her… yet she is letting Dee sit at her table and listen to a conversation that doesn’t have a whole lot to do with her...

She snaps, “GOD DAMN IT DEE, WHY ARE YOU EVEN HERE? GET OUT!”

Dee puts up her hands and speaks ridiculously calmly. “Sorry, but I think you’re missing something here. Didn’t Frank make you sign an agreement which means Charlie has the right to look after your baby on a week by week basis? I know that Charlie only steps up for one night a week like the dickbag that he is, but knowing men, no one is going to be sending a chopper to pick up your baby until the legally binding week of care is up.”

For once, Dee has a point. The Waitress sinks into her chair and drops her face in her hands. How on  _ earth  _ is she going to get through this week knowing what Charlie is capable of? She wipes tears from her face and turns to her cousin with a more lenient compromise.

_ ‘You want me to help you? I’ll help you, but you have to promise that you do something about C-H-A-R. Beat him up or T-H-R-E-A-T  him, I don’t care! I just don’t want him near me or my baby anymore.’ _

“ _ What _ are you saying?” Dee insists.

The Waitress grits her teeth, stressed, and says aloud, “I’m going to help him with something so that he’ll help me get my baby back.”

_ ‘Fine. Let’s get moving. We’re running out of time,’ _ Wes says as he gets to his feet.

“Wait, are you going somewhere? Where are you going? I’m coming with you,” Dee says, jumping to Wes’ side. “He can lip read, right? Hey, what’s your name? I’m Sweet Dee.”

Wes shakes Dee off him and goes out into the hallway of the apartment block. Unbothered, Dee primps her hair and meets Wes in the hallway, leaving The Waitress to lock up. When she has secured her apartment, she turns around to see Dee acting flirtatiously around her cousin. The sight of it makes her cringe.

“Dee, I’m busy! I can’t put up with your bullshit right now!”

“What, are you dating him?”

“No! He’s my cousin,” The Waitress says, “His name is Wes.”

“Okay, cool, so is he single? I’m newly  _ available _ .”

_ ‘This woman is very annoying _ ,’ Wes signs.

The Waitress wants to laugh but she’s increasingly frustrated that Dee isn’t taking any hints whatsoever. Instead, The Waitress hooks onto Wes’ elbow and leads him out of the apartment building. She’s aware that Dee is tailing them, but she turns her focus to her cousin now.

_ ‘Where are we going?’ _ She asks.

_ ‘We’re going to P-A H-Q. They’ll take me as prisoner when I go in, as they did when I arrived. I think they know what I did in M-N but that’s okay. I have information I can use to prolong my sentence.’ _

_ ‘Wait, slow down,’ _ The Waitress signs,  _ ‘Can you repeat that?’ _

Wes sighs and begins to repeat what he had signed but slower. Dee then jogs alongside Wes, and sends The Waitress a dirty look before saying, “Come on bitch! You need to say what you’re both signing out loud so I can understand! I’m not a mind reader.”

“Jesus, Dee!” The Waitress says, “Why do you even care what he has to say? He’s not here for you.”

“I’m  _ bored _ , okay? Happy?”

“We’re not here to entertain you,” The Waitress spits.

Dee’s pace drops and her face crumples. “Please, I can’t be alone right now.”

The Waitress stares at her. It strikes her as odd. Dee’s personality has always been so carefully constructed, that to see her break like this makes The Waitress  _ actually  _ feel sorry for her, no matter how much The Waitress  _ does not _ want to feel sympathy for the skinny blond who has tormented her almost her entire life. That’s always been her weakness – feeling for people who don’t give a shit about her. Still, she has an inclination to take in wounded birds, and wonders why her life is so messed up by letting those types of people in her life.

Wes snaps his fingers in front of The Waitress’ face, dragging her attention away from the enigma that is Deandra Reynolds and back to the task at hand.

_ ‘Pay close attention,’ _ Wes signs slowly,  _ ‘As soon as we go into H-Q, you’ll need to-‘ _

Wes drops his hands in frustration when The Waitress interrupts him,  _ ‘H-Q?’  _ and to appease Dee, she says aloud, “What are you talking about?”

Wes rolls his eyes.  _ ‘P-A H-Q. There’s a new Captain there. I can’t just walk in and walk out like I did with the old Captain.’ _

“I don’t understand,” The Waitress says.

Wes lip reads her and replies,  _ ‘What exactly do you think it is that I do?” _

The Waitress frowns.  _ ‘Are you a H-I-T-M-A-N?’ _

Wes laughs.  _ ‘Is that what your mother told you?’ _

“You’re a terrible translator,” Dee quips, crossing her arms.

“I can’t translate if I don’t understand what he’s saying, can I?”

_ ‘You really don’t remember, do you? I wonder if your mother got the V to wipe your memory before she killed him.’ _

Before Dee can fire up again, The Waitress tries to make something up, but ends up telling a lie closer to the truth. “He said he was catching up with my mother before he came here.”

“I don’t care about that. Just tell me the interesting stuff. Who is he? What does he do?”

The Waitress considers telling the whole truth, but she realises that she’s missing Wes’ reply and instead says, “I’m not flirting with my cousin for you, now shut up.”

_ ‘It will take too much time to explain. All you need to do is translate what I tell you to during the trial. Then, when they take me for transport, I’ll need you to access the supplies cache. I need you to take as much as you can and then deliver it to a place I specify to you in MN.’ _

“So? Is he single?” Dee asks as she hovers around the two of them. “Ask him if he’s single.”

“Just shut up, Dee! It’s hard to understand what he’s saying when you keep interrupting.” 

_ ‘You’ll need a bigger bag.’ _ Wes signs. He looks around.  _ ‘Do you have any money?’ _

_ ‘No, _ ’ The Waitress replies, not sure that she would give him money anyway. 

They stop at a traffic light and wait to cross the road. Ahead of them stands a large church with the windows and doors boarded up. It’s a strange sight to see in the middle of the city. The Waitress doesn’t often go to this part of town, but something about the place seems oddly familiar. Dee dawdles behind them. She had hoped that by now, Dee would have moved on to something or someone else. Then, just as the crossing light turns green, Wes grabs the large bag that Dee has over her shoulder and hurries The Waitress across the road toward the church. 

“HEY! THAT’S MY BAG YOU SON OF A BITCH!” Dee shouts, running after them. 

At the foot of the steps leading up to the large barricaded doors of the church, Wes turns the bag upside down and empties the contents on the ground. Baggies of drugs and coins and loose cash deposit onto the pavement. A collection of homeless people who were clustered on the steps look on, eyes wide, as Dee drops to the ground and tries to collect the contents of her bag. The sight of the homeless people gawking at Dee makes The Waitress’ skin crawl. It’s absolutely unsettling to see the only people populating a building which is meant to be open to the public is a bunch of heartless homeless people who don’t even get up to help Dee. Not that she’s helping either…

Wes walks up the steps, lifts off a panel of wood and cracks open one side of the double-door entranceway. Now, a couple of homeless people sit up like watchful ravens to eye over what Wes and The Waitress are doing. The light of the day contrast with the darkness inside the church so strongly that she can’t see inside, but she guesses that the interior of the building must be as empty and dilapidated as the exterior perpetuates. Wes gestures for her to go inside, except she feels as if she can’t move. There’s something about this place that is so utterly eerie, but familiar at the same time. 

Dee beats her to the punch and starts marching up the stairs with her possessions in her arms, only to be barred entry by Wes. He shakes his head solemnly, then takes hold of Dee’s shoulders and moves her aside, then beckons The Waitress. ‘ _ Hurry up.’ _

_ ‘I don’t know what I’m doing!’  _ The Waitress signs. She holds her breath against the smell of homeless people as she darts up the stairs.

_ ‘All you have to do is do is say and do what I tell you. Once this is done, I can deal with your problem.’ _

_ ‘Promise?’ _

Wes nods. He ushers The Waitress inside the church, sending Dee one last glare as a warning. Once inside, he closes the large door behind The Waitress. It thuds shut, exuding a puff of dust into the air. The roof is partially caved in, casting warm sunlight down into the halls. The rafters look almost black, as if a fire had ripped through the building. Suddenly, The Waitress begins to feel as if maybe her initial thought that her cousin had come to assassinate her is turning out to be true. What better way than to take your victim to an abandoned building and murder them?

She swallows.

The sound of the door creaking opening again scares her, a scream bursting out of her lips, and she bolts to the back of the church, looking for an exit that isn’t the one with her cousin nearby. She sees a narrow corridor cast partially in darkness and runs down it. It ends too quickly. Footsteps getting louder behind her. Heart in her throat. She can’t see, save for a silver-lined door luminescent in the dim light. She finds a door handle and opens it, slamming her weight on the closed door behind her, her eyes scanning the room for her next exit.

She’s aware that she’s breathing heavily, tries to cull it back, calm her heart. She closes her eyes, and opens them again to yet another familiar space. She knows she has never been to this church before, yet it looks  _ so _ familiar. Something burning behind foggy memories that she can’t give the time to draw out because a weight on the other side of the door propels her forward.

She falls on her hands and knees, and screaming, scampers to the corner of the room. She finds a wall and turns around, drawing her knees to her chin.

“Please don’t hurt me! I have a baby who needs me! Please!” She whimpers, holding up her hands in defence.

She hears the sound of a flip lighter which casts enough light in the room for The Waitress to make out the shape of her cousin kneeling down in front of her.

_ ‘Don’t be scared. You’re on the right track,’ _ He signs. Then he smiles, and offers a hand to help her up. When The Waitress only stares at him, he signs,  _ ‘Remembering is the hardest part. When you do, everything that happens today will make sense.’ _

He offers his hand again, and she takes it. She brushes the dust off her clothes, feeling silly for running and screaming like a scared child. Granted, she had good reason to suspect that she was about to ‘disappear’.  Wes then moves over to the corner of the room and pulls at a metal ring connected to the floor. It lifts up and reveals a wooden staircase leading underground.

_ ‘Before we go down, I need to explain how you’re going to get to the supplies cache. I hope you’re good at lying.’ _


	16. The Come Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah sorry it's a bit late guys! uni is starting again and i'm all kinds of stressed! updates may come less frequently than before.
> 
> also, i decided to split this part of the story up into shorter chapters rather than have one really long chapter with alternating perspectives since lots of things are happening at once. but writer's block & uni stress is not a good combo. bear with me! I'll update next when i can <3

Dee’s knees crack when she bends over to grab the contents of her bag that the deaf asshole had emptied out all over the damn steps. She squats awkwardly with one foot on a high step and her other foot on a low step as she scrambles to collect all of her things together. Just as she is able to hold almost everything in her arms, pens, tampons, crumpled up receipts, money, and tiny plastic baggies with cocaine wedged into the corners all go down to the ground at the same time as bile rises up and out of her stomach.

She wretches and forces the vomit down again, the horrible bitter taste lacquering her throat, and twists around as if that will help her escape the sickness inside of her. She looks up at the bright sky because she’s been doing that a lot lately. Looking up so that she doesn’t have to see a fatty between her legs, look away so that she doesn’t have to see how low she has stooped. The bile settles again, begrudgingly wearing down the last of the cocaine she had used before letting herself into The Waitress’s apartment.

Then, she sees The Waitress and the dumb hot deaf dude walking into the church without her. She drags her feet over the stupid hard steps. Sweat on the back of her neck. Body threatening to turn inside out again. Stand up, stand up _straight_ , bitch!

She goes to open the door, but it’s strangely heavy and she is forced to slam all her weight on the door just to get it open a fraction. She howls, and grits her teeth as she tries to wedge the door open wider but just as she’s about to slip through, someone grabs her by the collar of her shirt and yanks her backward. She stumbles with this person on the top step, then loses balance and lurches down several steps. As she’s falling backward, she sees a homeless man mosey toward the church and heave a large section of wood in front of the door.

Dee kicks and punches out of the hold of the person who reeks of piss and instinctively spits when she sees that it’s none other than Rickety Cricket. He stands over her, the pile of blue fliers Dee had printed out earlier for him to hand out have depleted by more than half.

Her voice is croaky when she shouts, “What the hell! Have you been following me?!”

Cricket makes a face that Dee can barely read since his skin is so pink and wrinkle and his glass eye so horrific that even if he smiled or grimaced, Dee wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

“No, I’m handing out the invitations to your show like you said,” Cricket explains.

He holds up all that remains of the fliers as if he’s expecting Dee to thank him or something.

Dee gets to her feet and brushes the dirt off her front. “Don’t hand the invitations out to these hobos!! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“What, you said invite attractive people. Arnold is the most attractive guy I know,” Cricket says, pointing at the guy who just placed the obstruction in front of the door Dee needed to go through.

From the top step, the homeless man grins, showing off so few teeth. “Aw, shucks Mara.”

“YOU!” Dee yells at the homeless man standing all high and mighty, “Move that the hell back you shitbag! I have to go in!”

The homeless guy glowers at her. He pulls at his ripped pants and sits down on the top step like a guard dog. “Boss says you’re not allowed in.”

“I was with them!!” Dee insists, pointing at the door. “Why were they allowed in and I wasn’t?!”

The homeless guy shrugs and crosses his arms, so Dee marches up and tries to move the slab of wood, but it’s even heavier than the church door and she cannot make it budge in inch. She screams and beats it with her fist, before turning around to see Cricket trying to steal her shit that’s still scattered on the ground. She dashes down the steps and snatches away what she can and shoves items in her pockets before realises that the space required to contain what was in a bag does not equal the space in her pockets. Frustrated, she opts to grabbing Cricket by his wrists and dumping everything that he’s holding into a nearby trash can, including the invitations she had bribed him to hand out.

Cricket wriggles out and holds his hands up. “I’m allowed to have _opinions_ , Dee. Just because I don’t think that Dennis is the most attractive guy I know-”

Dee holds her breath, and it’s maybe the only thing she has any control over in that moment.

“Knew,” Cricket corrects, “Shit.”

Dee grips the rim of the trash can and throws up over the contents of her bags and the fliers she had just thrown away. When nothing else surfaces from her stomach, she gapes at the mess in this little ecosystem of vomit, paper, plastic and possessions, waiting to see her brother and mother’s faces, but they never show either.

She stands up and wipes her face with her hand, then glares at Cricket.

“You think I want my first solo show to be in a bar full of stinking hobos??”

Cricket chews on his lip. “I mean, you sti-”

“BESIDES, the show isn’t happening anymore. I’m onto the next thing,” She says, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder to gesture at the church.

Cricket chews at his lips some more, so roughly that it starts to bleed. “What about it?”

“I want to get in.”

“You want to get _in_?”

“Yeah,” Dee says, turning around to face the church. “Come to think of it, isn’t this the same church that you failed to become a priest at? How did you - how do you even fail at that, huh? Did you diddle some little church boy, Cricket? You sicko.”

“I DIDN’T _FAIL_ , I GAVE IT UP SO THAT I COULD _BE_ WITH YOU BECAUSE YOU _TOLD_ ME THAT YOU _LOVED_ ME!”

_...But wait, Artemis I think I might…. L… Luh…. Luhhhhh-..._

“Did I? That doesn’t sound like something - me? Loving _you_?! Look at you. Who could love you? You’re disgusting!”

Cricket rolls his eyes. “I know my value.”

Dee scoffs. “‘You know your value’ - what does that even mean? You know what? I don’t care. I just want to get in there. That asshole took my bag-”

“I can get you in,” Cricket interrupts, “But you’re going to give me a better deal than a sack of lemons.”

Dee sighs, hot air scraping passed her very dry and bitter throat. “What do you want? I told you I’m not going to go on a date with you. You’re a revolting human being.”

“I don’t want to date you!” Cricket cries exasperated, then calms himself. “...It has come to my attention that Mac has been absent for a very… long… time…”

Dee squints. “You’re such a creepy stalker! Are you about to tell me that you  _murdered_ him?!”

“No, I have my eyes on his apartment.”

“Oh! Oh, I get it. You want the exercise bike thing, don’t you?”

Cricket gets flustered for a moment. “No! But it _will_ be included with the keys, right?”

“With the keys?” Dee laughs. “You think I’m going to give you the keys to Mac’s apartment? You know that my brother’s shit is all still there you inconsiderate shitstain? I’m not letting you in there!”

“That’s cool,” Cricket says, sounding so sympathetic that Dee wants to punch him in his stupid burnt face. “I didn’t realise that… shouldn’t you have packed his stuff away alr-”

Dee grabs Cricket and pulls him face to face, not caring that his forehead touches her own. “YOU DON’T GET TO TELL ME HOW TO DEAL WITH MY BROTHER’S DEATH YOU ASSHOLE.”

“All I'm saying is that this is a big job, Dee. It’s no handing out fliers to trash cans. I’m gonna need something big in exchange.”

Dee lets go of Cricket. “Fine! Fine. You can have keys to _Charlie’s_ apartment.”

“Charlie? Is he dead too?”

“What? No. No one is dead or murdered except my... my brother." She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them to glare at Cricket. "Charlie and Frank are on a cruise. Indefinitely.”

Cricket shrugs. “Charlie’s is good too. I know some people who pay more if pussies are involved.”

“Ew, I don’t want to know what kind of-”

“Pussy cats, I mean. The area outside his apartment is prime cat hunting area. Have you ever had cat stew before?” Cricket's eyes light up.

“Uh huh, I don’t have time for this. I need to get into that church and get my bag back.”

“Sure, your ‘bag’,” Cricket says with air quotes, then slings an arm around Dee’s shoulder as he leads her away from the main entry. “Alright. I’ll show you the secret way in but you have to _swear_ that you won’t tell Artemis that I showed you.”

Dee squints at him as she shoves his arm off her. “Artemis? Why would I tell that bitch about this?”

Cricket nods. “Good. The less she knows about this, the better.”


	17. Blowtorch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wes Wrench and his cousin (The Waitress) infiltrate The Order. 
> 
> A reminder with paraphrasing from Chapter 4:  
>  _“Minnesota wants to charge Wrench for murder,” Gloria says, reading off her letter.  
>  “Are you suggesting a Hunter killed another Hunter? And let me guess, he wants to use his testimony that he has killed off a UV to clear his name?” The Captain asks.   
> “I suspect so,” Gloria says gravely, “Or perhaps to pass on information that will help us get Malvo.”  
> “Gloria. We have an entire HQ wiped out by a single UV. I’m only presuming this UV has something to do with the Gerhardt uprising in Fargo. How do you expect us to reinforce an entire millenium of history to new initiates when we only have a handful of active members in Philadelphia alone? We’re not going to send Wrench off to Minnesota until we have extracted as much information from him as possible. And then we’re going to use it to trade.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So i’m finally explaining the vampire lore in this chapter. Exposition is… not my strong point. I’ve tried to make it as interesting as possible, which has meant quite a bit of (hopefully not confusing and truly kind of comedic) dialogue. Anyway, enjoy!

It’s been almost a decade since Wrench has entered the Pennsylvania HQ. So much has changed since he was last here, the most notable being the lack of good, bright lighting. Wrench had assumed that the Captain had preferred the mood lighting, another one of her strange changes when she took over. Artemis Dubois had been appointed the Captain after the previous Captain died of old age, and though many had been doubtful of Artemis’ ability to command the HQ at such a young age, no one else was willing to take sacrifice the fun of working in the field for the paperwork that was involved in the leadership position.

Apparently, neither was she. One time Wrench and Numbers had set foot in the weapons vault to resupply and they had caught Artemis with an outsider. She had been dressed in a sexy nun Halloween costume and was in the process of committing a very compromising sexual act with a freakishly short man who was dressed in a ‘Man-Spider’ costume. Since that encounter, Artemis had always been lenient with Numbers and Wrench accessing the weapons vault when they needed to, and had established a good working relationship that Wrench had been hoping to make use of to resupply for his next mission. 

He learnt that Artemis’ control (or lack thereof) over the HQ had come to an end when he first arrived and had been confined in the newly named ‘conference room’ for two days.

He refused to speak to the Lieutenant and insisted on a translator, not that he couldn’t converse on paper, but he required the translator for a distraction in order to resupply. Technically, that’s still breaking the rules, but stealing from his old HQ is a lot more forgivable than causing the hunters there serious harm. It will be better for everyone if they take council and listen to what he has to say. 

It’s strange returning to the HQ that he had called home for so many years, without Numbers. It’s still the same ancient building, with the same basic layout. He knows his way around with his eyes closed, and can remember what it looked like before the current Captain tried to ‘modernise’ the space in lieu of most of the family being killed or exiled over the years. Wrench’s cousin isn’t exactly the translator he had hoped to have with him but she may come in handy if some of her repressed memories resurface when they go down. It would save him a lot of explaining to jog her memory, but he has to give her something.  Wrench sets the lighter down on the floor and crouches in front of it, hoping that it’s enough light for his cousin to see his hand movements so that he can communicate to her what she needs to know.

While it’s true that Wrench is here to resupply, the cause for which is to clear his name and avenge his long-time partner (life partner, if you will), Grady Numbers. Wrench’s cousin was removed from the family at quite a young age, but if she somewhat remembers Wrench, she may remember how Numbers had been contentiously adopted into the family as a friend for Wrench. A friend, a translator, something much more… They trained together and challenged expectations of a deaf boy and his friend attached at the hip. Together they rose up the ranks of The Order and were eventually transferred to the North Dakota HQ to help squash a potential Gerhardt uprising in Fargo. The pair had been successful for a number of years, cornering the family to their ranch and limiting their access to the wider world thanks to the deals made between the surviving Gerhardts and the Fargo Elders.

Striking deals with vampire families was not an uncommon thing to do, especially when families were old and wealthy. Vampire hunting is an essential business but, as unrecognised as it is, it does not pay well unless civil agreements are made between the vampires that hunters allow to remain alive. The Gerhardts’ wealth could be traced back to Deiter Gerhardt who passed his slave owning wealth to his son, Otto. During the Korean War, it was understood that Otto, his wife, and four sons were turned by an unknown UV. With the lack of a family member possessing UV supremacy, the family began to gain power and notoriety based upon their charisma, wealth, and negotiation skills - a common route for vampire families. 

However, as in most cases, the patriarch grew frustrated with his inability to control the whims of his children and decided to challenge the myths about consuming UV dust in order to gain the power to command other vampires. Luckily for him, the North Dakota HQ were in the midst of moving their base from Bismarck to Fargo and he targeted their vulnerability to rob them in transit. He consumed a whole bag of ancient UV dust and consequently made himself brain dead. 

Shortly afterwards, his wife, Floyd, became the matriarch of the family and commandeered her grandchildren and two of her own sons to their true deaths. Before facing her true death, Floyd was able to make a deal with the newly established ND HQ in Fargo which allowed her family to continue to exist on the land that their family home was situated on so long as Hunters could make use of the Gerhardts where they saw fit.

As such, the family has been an essential scientific resource, even going so far as to be the first guinea pigs for numerous failed synthetic blood substitute trials. The youngest surviving member of the Gerhardts, Rye, has been in use in Fargo as their resident memory wiper since 1979, and has aided in memory policing across North Dakota for decades. The Gerhardts have since tried to rise from their restraints, an uprising which Numbers and Wrench successfully squashed, but have otherwise remained in control by honorable humans. 

Of course, that all went to shit when Lorne Malvo decided to wipe out the entire base not long after killing Numbers. Wrench has vowed to make Malvo pay by making him face the true death. He won’t rest until Malvo is dust. Aside from Wrench’s personal vendetta against Malvo, the UV’s activity across states has set off a far worse sequence of events.

Since Malvo has wiped out every single hunter active in Fargo, the Gerhardts are now free from their restrictions and have since taken over Fargo. Wrench knows for a fact that they have their eyes set on taking over the Minnesota HQ due to a deal he intercepted in St. Cloud, one that exposed a crooked Minnesotan hunter working with V.M. Varga. Wrench witnessed the deal going awry and the hunter had been killed, whose death has since been blamed on Wrench.

As such, Minneapolis has more to worry about than trying Wrench for the murder of a fellow hunter. They have the threat of the Gerhardt’s wealth backing Varga’s business ventures, wealth that is so bountiful that Varga has likely set up one, if not multiple, human harvesting centres right under the very noses of the Minnesotan HQ. Rather than wasting time charging Wrench for the death of a hunter – a crime that he did not commit – they should grant him probation to hunt down Varga. Whether Wrench is actually able to take out Varga or not depends on how deeply he has filled the pockets of his investors, and just how many vampires are flocking to his establishments. And honestly, he’s not even going to attempt to take Varga down. That’s for him to know, because being granted the freedom to hunt means that Wrench will be able to make use of information he can acquire from a concentration of vampires in order to find Malvo’s trail again. There’s always that one vampire that doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut, and then Wrench can make Malvo meet his end.   

Nevertheless, there isn’t enough time (or light) to explain any of that to his cousin. All she needs to know is that when he sends her a signal, it is her cue to sneak out of the room and go to the weapons vault. They will walk passed it on the way to the conference room, a standard procedure as a passive warning to prisoners, but due to Pennsylvania HQ’s great loss of hunters, there shouldn’t be anyone guarding the weapons vault. Walking passed it would simply be a token of the glory days. She’ll then need to stock up on all of the bullets she can fit in her bag and then find a way to escape. If it goes well, he will be able to meet back up with her. If it does not, he’ll contact her later and send her coordinates where she can hide the supplies for him to collect. 

_ ‘Did you get that?’ _ Wrench signs when he finishes.

_ ‘No! Are you asking me to steal something?!’ _

_ ‘It’s three easy steps. 1. Keep translating until I cause a distraction for you to slip out of the room. 2. Find the weapons vault and stock up on as many bullets as you can. 3. Escape and wait until you receive word from me.’ _

_ ‘Escape? Escape where?’ _

_ ‘Your apartment. Make sure no one is following you.’ _

_ ‘Who are these people? Wait, what about the coordinates part? Wes!’  _ His cousin pulls at his arm. _ ‘WES!’ _

He ignores her as she continues to frantically signs more questions. He pulls up the hatch by the metal ring and ushers her down. A job like this wouldn’t be so difficult if Numbers was still around. It’d be in and out because Numbers would step up and take the brunt of the annoying procedures that The Order always makes them abide by. Instead, he has to hold the hand of his unstable, potentially unreliable cousin.

Surprisingly there’s actually a guard at the base of the staircase. After patting Wrench and his cousin down, they are carted off to different members of PN HQ as they seem to decide whether or not Wrench’s cousin is allowed to enter, despite her having seen much of the interior of The Order already. They soon discover that she had, in fact, been a part of the original hunting family but had been exiled, a fleeting statement read aloud which leaves his cousin with no less questions. 

Upon being approved entry, they are shuffled to the Lieutenant’s office, who then shows them to the conference room. All of the trouble they had gone through to get to this point already has Wrench on edge. He has his teeth grit, his arms folded, and refuses to acknowledge his cousin’s repeated questioning. He only has so much patience left and he has to save that for the interrogation, or else he’ll be carted off to the MN HQ’s jail without further negotiation. 

Wrench knows where to sit – on the single chair that faces the opposite direction of every other chair in the room. The lieutenant who had kept him in custody the two nights prior, sends him a sympathetic look when she comes over to tie him up. She ties his arms together in such a way that he can still move his hands to sign. He doesn’t know why she even bothered. It barely restricts him and it’s just another token practice that isn’t necessary given the current climate of The Order.

The Lieutenant then sits down at the only desk in the room. Wrench’s cousin stands around awkwardly, not knowing what to do with herself other than asking Wrench the same questions over and over. 

_ ‘Where  _ are _ we? Who is this woman? What are we waiting for? Why does it look like we’re in a dungeon?!’ _

Wrench had hoped that being inside the HQ might help her remember that she was born here, but her mother must have killed the resident vampire  _ after _ he scrubbed her memory for exile.

He answers at least one of her questions.  _ ‘Calm down. The Captain will come soon. Just translate everything we say to each other until it’s your cue.’ _

_ ‘You owe me big time for this!!!’ _

Eventually the Captain enters. He looks to be a man in his late 40s or early 50s, still relatively young for a Captain. He has very small eyes and his eyebrows are straight lines which press on his eyes so that he shares a permanent glare. He’s dressed in a suit with a neat, albeit dusty, tie. Wrench wrinkles his nose. Artemis had been the rare exception to the neat, snooty Captains who think they’re superior because of their title. This guy exemplifies the exact type of person The Order wants in control of state headquarters and of course the Elders would appoint the most stereotypical one to fill Artemis’ spot.  

The Captain doesn’t introduce himself. He has a laptop in hand which he sets down on the table in front of his Lieutenant. He starts addressing Wrench in an introductory speech, but has to stop to help his Lieutenant with the computer that she seems to be incapable of using. They exchange an argument that Wrench’s cousin gets involved in when she goes over to help the Lieutenant learn how to use the machine. After a few minutes, the Lieutenant directs Wrench’s cousin away and Wrench lip reads her saying, “I’m ready.”

The communication of the speech that the Captain launches into starts off rocky because Wrench’s cousin keeps asking him to slow down since her sign language is rusty. It takes her a while to spell out the words that she doesn’t know, and everyone in the room is visibly frustrated with each others’ forthcomings; except the Lieutenant who dutifully jots down all that is being communicated. The Captain only gets halfway through his speech detailing what Wrench will be tried for in Minnesota before throwing up his hands and beginning to pace around the room. 

Wrench’s cousin catches up with the translations, then speaks and signs,  _ ‘None of this makes any sense to me! What the hell is a V or a U-V?!’ _ When Wrench doesn’t answer, she sighs and finishes conveying what the captain is asking Wrench.  _ ‘He wants you to explain yourself.’  _

Wrench eyes the Captain. He has thought very hard about how he can concisely convey what he knows. If he does it right, he won’t have to put up with the whole charade for long.  _ ‘Where do you want me to start?’ _

The Captain taps his lips thoughtfully. “Start with Malvo.”

The Lieutenant leans over her desk and covers one side of her mouth to let Wrench lip read her, “He only knows who Malvo is because I told him.”

Wrench doesn’t think that the Captain saw exactly what she said, but he certainly didn’t approve of her covert communication. Numbers would have gotten a kick out of such an imbalanced working relationship in full view. He catches himself wanting to smile, though the man he wants to show it to is no longer with him. He breathes deeply. Back to the task at hand. 

_ ‘I was hunting M-A-L-V-O when he was toying with N-Y-G-’ _

“With who?” The Captain questions, finally taking a seat opposite Wrench.

_ ‘L-E-S-T-E-R N-Y-G-A-A-R-D,’  _ Wrench spells out, _ ‘His human accomplice. I got so close to taking M-A-L-V-O down.’ _

Wrench clenches his fists as he thinks about what happened when he was chasing Malvo through the snowstorm. How he and Numbers had gotten so close… forced him out of his car, blew out his windshield, cornered him only for him to disappear in the cloak of the snow. How he had split up with Numbers, and he’d spotted the tartan lines in Malvo’s coat through the snow… and instead, the cop, Molly Solverson, had shot him down. She was the one who told him that his partner was dead. That Malvo had slit his throat and let his blood freeze over the snow laden sidewalk. 

“I’m waiting,” The Captain says. 

Wrench digs his fingernails into his knees. He’s so used to saying whatever he wants. So used to being utterly truthful. Numbers knew how to vet his brutal honesty, but Wrench’s cousin doesn’t know how to embellish his words. He’ll have to make himself sound as good as he can and hope that it doesn’t get lost in translation and reveal his ulterior motive. 

“Fine, do you want me to jog your memory about how you failed? According to our records-”

“According to my report!” The Lieutenant mouths. 

“-The UV killed your ‘partner’ and you got arrested. You were being detained in St Cloud, then you were being moved to Minnesota State Prison before your prison bus was overturned by, uh-”

“Vs in animal masks,” The Lieutenant finishes. 

_ ‘ They were after a woman, N-I-K-K-I.’ _

“A human?” The Captain clarifies. 

_ ‘Yes. We were handcuffed together. We escaped in the woods-’ _

“How did you come across the MN hunter?”

_ ‘I’m getting to it. Tell him he’s being impatient, cousin. You have to understand that we were handcuffed together for days. She was badly hurt, we were both weak, hungry, and unarmed. We could only run.’ _

“Did you kill the hunter?”

Wrench clenches his teeth in frustration.  _ ‘Make sure you’re translating this right. I don’t want to have to write it down, it will take longer.’ _

_ ‘I’m getting it! Just go slower,’ _ His cousin replies. She almost adds ‘asshole’ on the end, but quickly stops in order to translate what Wrench signs next. 

_ ‘We intercepted a deal between the hunter and a V.’ _

“Was he masked?” The Lieutenant asks, pausing from her slow typing.

“Stop asking questions, Gloria! You’re meant to record everything, not ask questions. That’s my job.”

_ ‘The V was masked. The hunter might have been alive. I wasn’t in a position to check. V-A-R-G-A’s Vs noticed us. We made it out of the woods and-’ _

“What do you mean by that?” The Captain interrupts him, “Are you implying his murder was committed by the hands of Vs?”

“ _ Can someone please explain what a V is? _ ” Wrench’s cousin asks.

Wrench continues,  _ ‘He was hung to let his blood drain out.’ _

“They didn’t drink him?” Gloria asks.

“ _ They didn’t drink him?! _ ” Wrench’s cousin repeats, her eyes wide.

“Minnesota said their hunter was shot, not drained.  _ And  _ that you killed multiple humans. How can we trust your word? Is this, ‘Nikki’, still alive?”

Wrench clasps his fingers together.  _ ‘No, she is not. M-N is corrupt.’ _

The Captain narrows his eyes. “Minnesota is a strong defence for the north. There’s no way that one corrupt hunter’s business with Vs can speak for the whole.”

Wrench shakes his head.  _ ‘You have no idea what’s going on up there.’ _

“Why would Minnesota frame you for killing a hunter?” Gloria asks. 

The Captain puts up his hands. “Hold on, nobody said anything about framing anyone. The information we have says that Wes Wrench 

“I think he’s telling the truth,” Gloria says. 

Wrench straightens his back.  _ ‘N-I-K-K-I was involved in something bigger than she could handle. In a way, she helped me out of prison, so I owed her. She was chasing money, a money trail which began with N-A-R-W-H-A-L and ended with S-T-U-S-S-Y.’ _

“Narwhal… Why does that sound familiar?” Gloria wonders. 

_ ‘It’s the investment company that the G-E-R-H-A-R-D-T family have been using offshore.’ _

Wrench watches Gloria gasp. “In England…”

“One of you explain the significance of this,” The Captain demands. 

_ ‘In other words, and other names,’ _ Wrench explains,  _ ‘The G-E-R-H-A-R-D-T family have been funding V-A-R-G-A’s activity in M-N. they have been for some time. According to the records I uncovered at S-T-U-S-S-Y, they have been supporting V-A-R-G-A- even before F-A-R-G-O got eliminated. They also helped him escape London and enter the US via international airspace. Does that give you an indication of how deeply this runs?’ _

“That doesn’t prove anything,” The Captain says, “I’m not convinced that Minnesota is corrupt.”

_ ‘I haven’t finished,’ _ Wrench signs, looking at the Captain intently,  _ ‘I repaid my debt to N-I-K-K-I by killing E-M-M-I-T S-T-U-S-S-Y. Like his workplace, his home was well guarded.’ _

“With Vs?” Gloria asks. 

_ ‘Yes. All money trails finished at S-T-U-S-S-Y. Not a place, not a V. A human. He was a man with a name used to secure and disseminate V-A-R-G-A’s finances.’ _

“He’s the wax stamp,” Gloria says. The Captain rolls his eyes at her phrasing.

_ ‘The branding. Exactly. Which is unusual for him. He is old enough and smart enough to know not to use a human in such a way. The only reason why he would let a human be the face of his brand is if he’s working on something big in cooperation with M-N H-Q.’ _

Gloria nods reservedly. “Minnesota wouldn’t trust a V in a position of power.”

“Why do you keep saying ‘humans’ as if it’s different to saying ‘people’? It’s such a pedantic distinction to make and you  _ all  _ do it!” Wrench’s cousin complains. 

The Captain turns to her. “Why are you here if you don’t know anything?”

“I want to know that too!” She snaps. 

“I’m surrounded by imbeciles. Jesus christ. Just tell me what he’s saying! I’m missing it!”

“Okay, jeez, You don’t have to be rude about it.”

_ ‘I came here for an honest hearing. If you turn me into M-N, they will not give me a fair trial. I will be imprisoned immediately. Under V-A-R-G-A’s direction. So, while it is true that I have killed humans, I have been wrongly accused of killing a hunter.’ _

“You must still be tried for killing humans.”

Wrench rolls his eyes.  _ ‘Don’t you understand what I’m saying? It’s a waste of time for you to try me now. We have two active U-Vs in one state, the G family have taken over F-A-R-G-O and have already taken over some branches of M-N, and you really want to put me to trial still?’  _

“Right, so when you say U-V you don’t mean, uh, ‘vampire’ do you? Because if yes, you’re all insane,” Wrench’s cousin says. 

“The V in U-V does stand for vampire,” Gloria replies. 

“YOU’RE ALL INSANE!” 

Wrench watches The Captain make his cousin sit down. She’s clearly not happy about it, but at a loss as to what to do when she finally has an answer to one of the questions she has been asking the most frequently.

_ ‘You and I both know,’ _ Wrench begins, addressing The Captain,  _ ‘That hunters and humans alike will all be in danger if we let V-A-R-G-A continue to expand his business. He may even plan to go public. We need to take him down now before he becomes untouchable.’ _

“We’re not prepared for this,” The Captain says, casting his eyes to the ceiling.

_ ‘You’re right. We’re not, but if your Lieutenant briefed you on anything about me, you would know that I have taken down more U-Vs than any other hunter in history.’ _

The Captain turns to smirk at him. “Don’t brag. You weren’t alone.”

Wrench stands up so fast that his chair flings out beneath him and he can feel the vibration through the floor of when the chair hits the wall behind him. He almost signs what he’s thinking - that he won’t rest until Malvo is dust for killing Grady, but he knows that if he reveals his intentions to go after Malvo rather than Varga, The Captain won’t let him go. 

Wrench snarls. His muscles tense and carry so much of his rage that the rope around his biceps starts to fray.

Captains don’t do field work. That bastard cannot come close to understanding what Wrench has gone through. He had been weak. Shot twice. Handcuffed to a hospital bed. The Captain would have no idea what it’s like to have the Ultra Vampire who murdered the only person he loved in this world, stand just feet away from him. And taunt him.  _ Congratulate _ him on getting the closest anyone ever had before. He may as well have wrung a silver medal around his neck as a way of saying,  _ better luck next time, champ!  _

The memory makes him furious. There’s nothing more that he wants to do right now than to bust out with enough ammo to take down Malvo. He could just take the Captain and his Lieutenant down in one hit each. Except he’s trying to be honorable and Order-abiding. Trying. He’d always been more of a loose canon, with Grady around to calm him and hold him back where necessary. Now Wrench has to rely on Grady holding him back from beyond the grave.

He huffs and grates his teeth and opens his eyes to see that the three people in the room have crept away from him. His cousin has stepped out of her chair and is hugging the wall, The Captain has stepped closer to the door, and Gloria has stood up and is eyeing him carefully. He hadn’t intended to be threatening just yet, but they’ll know sooner or later what he’s capable of. Claiming to have killed more UVs than any other hunter isn’t something to mock. 

He forces himself back into his body, back into this room, back onto the mental checklist he had of things to say. 

_ ‘I requested to seek council to propose a counter offer. If you postp-’ _

“P-O-S-T-P, postpone?!” The Captain spells out loud, “No. No, absolutely not.”

Wrench tears the ropes off his arms and pegs them at the ground. 

Gloria holds up one hand and says, “I think we should hear him out. He has raised some good points so far.”

“Fine,” The Captain says, crossing his arms. 

_ ‘Postpone the trial long enough for me to kill V-A-R-G-A.’ _

_ ‘Wait, so you’re going to kill someone anyway?! Why won’t you kill one guy for me?!’ _ Wrench’s cousin signs,  _ ‘Talk about double standards!!!’ _

He waits for a reply from The Captain, but receives only a glare. 

_ ‘Did you translate that?’ _

_ ‘Yes I goddamn translated it!’ _

She must know how frustrating it is watching her spell out swear words. Wrench takes a deep breath. He picks up the chair he kicked away earlier and rights it again, then addresses The Captain.  _ ‘How many hunters do you have left? How many of them have actually been out in the field? None, right? All you have left are office clerks and research nuts. I’m offering you an opportunity that you would be wise to take. Give me time to kill V-A-R-G-A.’ _ He still doesn’t get an answer, so he adds,  _ ‘I’m an Order abiding man. Once I have taken down my target, I’ll turn myself in.’  _

The Captain scowls. “Fine. But you aren’t going alone.”

Wrench didn’t expect this. If Grady was here, he might have been able to warn him that this could be a possibility. He’s about to protest but at that exact moment, Gloria jumps out of her seat, accidentally knocking the laptop to the ground in the process. Wrench’s cousin rushes over to help her, and after an amount of upheaval, Wrench deduces that knocking the laptop onto the ground wasn’t the main problem. Red faced, the Captain orders his Lieutenant out of the room. 

It’s the moment Wrench has been waiting for, a moment he thought would only occur right at the very end of their negotiation. Perhaps a little too eager to wrap this up, he sends the signal to his cousin. 

_ ‘It wasn’t plugged in,’ _ His cousin explains,  _ ‘I think she didn’t know she had to save the progress.’ _

Wrench performs the sign again, but this time he realises that his cousin is purposefully ignoring his cue.

“As I was saying,” The Captain continues, “I’ll grant you freedom to hunt Varga so long as Gloria accompanies you. She can prove her loyalty to me by-”

_ ‘Tell him that you can come with-’ _

“Oh so you’re volunteering me now, are you?” She accuses.

“She is not-”

“No, you know what? It’s _fine_! I'll do it!” His cousin relays, “I’ll  _ make  _ you stick to your word so that you come back and finish what I asked you to finish, you son of a bitch!”

“No, no,” The Captain says, “Once Varga is dust, Gloria is going to make sure that Wrench goes straight to trial. No doubt about it.”

Wrench’s cousin looks like she’s about to explode, but she doesn’t make a reply. Too soon, Gloria returns with books in hand and brushes passed everyone without paying any mind to how fiery they each are. The moment to send his cousin off has fleeted, and it looks like he must continue to plead his case.

Gloria sits down, opens the book to a blank page and looks up expectantly.

“Can you repeat what I missed?”

_ ‘Tell her that her Captain is a massive pain in the ass!’  _

Suddenly, all three of the people before him, each turn very pale, presumably upon hearing something disturbing. 

Instead of translating what Wrench said, his cousin asks the others, “Did you hear that?”

“Gloria, what the hell did you do?!”

“O, I just went to get the minutes books from the library, sir, I didn’t do anything else.”

The Captain gets up and promptly dashes out of the room. Gloria blinks after him, her back turned to Wrench. All he needed was one of them to leave the room, only he had hoped it would be the Captain who he could punch in the guts. He steps toward her, his fist raised and ready, then catches whiff of smoke. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will say that the influences on the lore i’ve written has come mostly from True Blood and a little bit of The Strain as well. I feel like every vampire story is a little different, which makes it more exciting to figure out what extra abilities they have or what they can’t do that they can in other stories etc. I’ll be explaining more of how the Always Sunny (... literally) vampires work more over the next chapters. Hope you guys like where i’m going with it so far :)


	18. You light one (1) bitch on fire

Dee had hoped that the secret entry to the church would be something more glamorous like a trapdoor where priests would usher their little boys through, or just a back door like a regular establishment. Instead, it’s a storm drain crawl and due to a lack of recent rainfall, storm water isn’t the only thing that’s being carried down the tunnels. Dee doesn’t want to think about how she’s currently neck deep in the brown mixture, or that it isn’t even her first rodeo doing so, but her senses are so consumed by the smell of the water lapping at her ear lobes that it is very difficult to think about anything else.

That is until Cricket swims through the filth like it’s a pristine pool, reaches the grate fitted into the stone ceiling, flips it open and pulls himself up, and doesn’t even seem to wait or offer Dee a hand. Bastard. Not a decent person in her life. Frank and Charlie? Both bastards. Mac? Dumb idiot bastard. The Waitress and her cruel, thieving cousin? Bastards. Everyone has left her behind, left her alone. It’s fine! It’s fine, though. She doesn’t care about being alone. She’s always thrived without the guys. They always want to involve her in some scheme which always had her playing the worst part. Her most successful scheme – her shows with Artemis – just goes to show how much people love and adore her without the gang’s interferences.

Except Artemis had to ruin that for her too, didn’t she? That fat bitch. At least she knows that she’s good enough to have a run of solo shows which may even boost her career further than a partnership with Artemis. Still, there’s no way that her first solo show is going to be her singing in front of an audience of hobos. They wouldn’t know how to appreciate a musical masterpiece if they heard it, or even if they did, they wouldn’t be in a position to help her advance her career. What she needs is a grand display of her craft which is so moving that it hits headlines.

The Waitress’ cousin inspired her with an idea when he stole her bag. In reality, she couldn’t give two shits about the bag. It’s not even that special to her, it’s just a knock off Gucci satchel that she bought for herself when Dennis wasn’t around to pretend to be the one with the idea to buy it for her birthday. But the deaf guy doesn’t know that. When she gets her bag back, she’ll tell him some sob story about how it was the last thing that Dennis gave her and that if he ruined it in any way, her last treasured memory with Dennis would also be ruined. She’ll guilt him into repaying her by collecting all of his deaf friends (who are surely going to be as attractive as he is, if not more) and these fortunate deaf people will be her audience for her first show.

Tragically, they won’t be able to hear her mastery but she will look so charitable in the eyes of the press that it will help her get real listeners who’ll appreciate her skill like they did when she was performing with Artemis, however underutilised she was beforehand. The Waitress’ cousin is someone who can connect her to a new circle of people who have no idea what they’re missing. It’s the best plan she has considering her own friends or ‘people she knows’ are all people she hates like The Waitress or Fatty Magoo or Cricket’s dirty hobos, and there’s no way that she’s calling Mandy down because her friends are probably all too uncultured to truly appreciate her music. No, getting the deaf clique under her belt will be perfect. The media loves good deeds done to help disabled people.

_ I don’t know, Sweet Dee, _ she can hear Dennis tut in the back of her head,  _ It’s pretty pathetic that you’re wading through a storm drain beneath a church just to make a deaf dude feel guilty enough to help you. _

“SHUT UP!!” 

Her voice booms forward and violently bounces off the dank walls to plummet into the rushing water. Bolstered by the currents, the sound of her voice echoes around her neck in a calamity of stench and cold, dirty water slapping at her skin. She gasps for air.

_ Who are you kidding, Deandra? _ Her mother drawls, wine on her tongue.  _ You have no skill. No talent. A man who can’t hear is no more of a fool than you who sings to him like a sick crow! HA!  _

Dee screeches. She sinks a little in the water, only to kick her soggy shoe against the bottom of the tunnel to push her head into more air space. She braces for a repeat of her ricocheting voice attempting to swallow her down with the rushing storm water around her, but instead it’s Cricket’s voice that travels out from the gaps in the grate. 

“Be quiet!!” He insists in a hush. 

Dee scowls as she wades over to the grate. She locks her fingers in the gaps of the metal and yanks the grate down. She struggles to pull herself up and onto the stone floor above with no help from Rickety Cricket. The ground hits her hard. Her soaked clothes slap the polished stone and excess water pools around her body.

She used to have so much energy. She needs a hit.

“Shhh!” Cricket hushes her, “Stop breathing so loudly!”

Dee tilts her head and glares at Cricket. He has one ear pressed against the closed door and one palm facing her as a sign to be silent. She’s ‘breathing too loudly’ because she’s still catching her breath, and Cricket is lucky that she doesn’t accost him for the stupid comment he made. While she rests, she scans around the space she’s in. It’s a very small, dimly lit room. The grate she had just climbed through sits at a sloped point in the centre of the floor. She can’t see through the grate but she can hear the filthy water rushing beneath, the smell no less encompassing. Either side of her are plain stone walls with brass candlesticks mounted. They are the only source of light in the room. Behind her are shelves stacked with bars of soap, thin books with shrivelled pages and stacks of toilet paper. Dee wonders if she hasn’t just climbed into some 12 th century bathroom, minus the toilet.

Unless…

“Oh my god!” Dee exclaims, pointing at the grate, “Is that a toilet?!”

“I said  _ shut up _ !”  Cricket hisses, “There’s something wrong.”

“Of course there’s something wrong!” Dee says, sitting up. “I’m covered in shit!!!”

Cricket flies over to her and clamps his hand over her mouth. Unfortunately her lips touch his moist, stinky skin and when she wretches, Cricket only seems to force his hand over her mouth harder. Now, she hears a set of three footsteps moving down a hallway on the other side of the door. One of the voices Dee recognises as The Waitress’, so she tries to get up but Cricket stops her by placing his other hand on her shoulder and kneeing her in the stomach. Winded, she collapses on the ground again. She doesn’t try anything else because she’s shocked and... weirdly a little turned on by Cricket’s use of force. 

Cricket waits a few minutes until after the footsteps have faded and by the time he lets Dee go, strangely most of her anger has dissolved. 

She coughs before she speaks. “What’s going on?”

Cricket stands up and grabs some toilet paper and starts cleaning himself up. Dee follows suit. 

“Do you remember that guy from the alleyway this morning?”

“Yeah, that Jew’s my lawyer. Should’ve picked that he was cheap enough to get drugs from you.” Cricket gives her a look, so she justifies herself. “I’m not being anti semitic I’m just saying that he’s ashamed of his heritage, so it’s funny that he goes to you for cheap drugs because he won’t admit that he’s Jewish.”

Cricket chews on his lips thoughtfully even though he hadn’t cleaned his face yet. He says in a low voice, “Yeah, I don’t think he’s your lawyer anymore. I think he’s the new Captain.”

Dee snorts. “Captain? That’s ridiculous.”

Cricket tilts his head from side to side, considering what Dee had said. “Well, it was a long time coming. Doesn’t mean I won’t steal from their stash still. It just means we’ll have to be careful.”

He shoves the soiled toilet paper through the holes in the grate and disposes of Dee’s as well. Then he puts the toilet rolls back in position, making sure to rotate the ones with brown smears on them so that they appear unused. 

“Come on, we’ll have to go the long way,” Cricket says, ushering Dee out of the room. 

She gives a few last wrings of her clothes, wishing that she could just change into a new set of clothing rather than pointlessly dabbing herself with 2 ply toilet paper, then follows Cricket into the dark hallway. 

“We should talk cuts. What do you say to 40/60?”

“Cuts? Of my bag? Are you insane?”

“Alright, alright,” Cricket says defensively, “I suppose the apartment is more than enough for payment. Fine. But you won’t take all of it, will you?”

“Of course I’m going to take all of it! It’s mine!”

“Dee!” Cricket hisses, “My trade thrives on the bag. Come on, we can make a good deal.”

“Oh, so you do all the things, huh Cricket? You sell your body, drugs, and knock off designer bags? Why don’t you just stick to the first two. No woman is going to believe you’re selling real Gucci bags going by your appearance.”

Cricket looks at her in confusion as he leads her through an open doorway into what appears to be some kind of ancient, dusty old library. 

“Designer - what? I’m talking about a cut of the dust.”

Dee stops. “You told me you were dry.”

“Keep your voice down!” Cricket hushes, looking around before continuing. “Of course I’m dry. We haven’t stolen the bag yet have we? Don’t worry, Artemis  _ wants _ it on the market, she just didn’t want to know about it. Of course, I wouldn’t have had to ever sneak around if you hadn’t made me drop out of the initiation program. Now there’s a new guy, who knows what he’ll do if he catches us.”

Dee can’t hold back a terse chuckle. “I didn’t make you do anything! All I wanted was to get my bag and I gave you the deal of the century just to get it.”

Cricket whispers angrily, “A shitty apartment hardly covers the price of Ultra Dust but-”

Dee laughs more freely. “Ultra Dust?!”

Cricket goes pale. “Wait, what do you think is going on here?”

“The Waitress’ cousin stole my Gucci bag and we’re here to get it back!” 

Cricket casts his eyes to the floor. He goes down the first aisle, holding his head in his hands. “Oh no. I’ve totally misunderstood this entire situation.” He looks up at Dee, eyes wide, and tersely whispers, “This isn’t my fault! You kept talking about bags!! How was I meant to know you weren’t talking about drugs!”

“Wait, there are drugs here?” 

“Ugh! The smell is back!” Someone exclaims from further down in the library. 

Cricket freezes. He pivots and sends Dee a look with wide eyes, his finger to his lips telling her to be silent. 

“Pity. I thought that might have been the only good thing about Artemis leaving,” A woman says to herself. 

Dee hears the woman’s voice getting closer with approaching footsteps. She has no idea if she’s in real danger or if Cricket is pulling her leg, but she instinctively hugs the shelves of books she is closest to. Her mind courses through the exchange she just had despite the woman’s steps drawing closer.  It seems that she and Cricket have both entered this situation having different understandings of what they were doing. And what danger could she be under in this archaic, candle lit dungeon anyway? What’s the worst they could do, try and convert her to Judaism? Sorry, but Dee likes Christmas presents far too much to even consider it. No, no. She’ll hide in the shadows cast by the bookshelves and when the woman is gone, she’ll demand Cricket show her where the drugs are since apparently he has agreed to her having a 100% cut without her even being aware that he was talking about drugs and not her whole Gucci bag.

The woman walks passed with several books and files in her hands. She’s a short woman with light brown hair in a pixie cut, and she’s wearing some kind of uniform with her shirt tucked into her trousers. She nudges the door shut behind her with her foot. Dee jumps at the sound of the door slamming, the noise echoing against the cool stone walls. The candle light flickers from the sudden gust of wind. As she turns her attention back to Cricket,  her eyes catch over books which contain the words ‘Vampire’, ‘Blood’ and ‘Kill’, in their titles

Everything about this situation is pure insanity. 

“If this is some way that my dumbass subconsciousness is dealing with a fat slut breaking up with me instead of  _ me  _ dumping  _ her _ ,” Dee says, “Then why am I dreaming about a woman I’ve never seen before? Is it my subconsciousness telling me that  I should give Artemis a second chance, because I don’t think I’m cut out to be a lesbian. It’s too much work.”

“Technically if you were into men and women that would make you bis-”

“YES THANK YOU but I didn’t ask you to clarify my sexuality! I asked you who that woman was!”

Cricket ruffles his hair, splattering some droplets of sewer water that hasn’t dried yet onto nearby books. “She’s just another vampire hunter I guess. I don’t know her name.”

Dee purses her lips. “Oh sure, a ‘vampire hunter’. And that’s not a totally batshit crazy thing to say. This is truly a wild one, but whatever, you said something about drugs? I want the drugs.”

“Yeah, just, hold on a second!” Cricket says, chewing his lips. “You’re telling me that you don’t know what this place is? Didn’t Artemis tell you  _ anything _ ?!”

“No she didn’t tell me about a secret dungeon underneath a church which is what, a front for a drug trade?”

“Seriously?” Cricket says, “Artemis doesn’t know the first step of keeping a secret. She’s been telling initiates everything there is to know about hunting vampires since she was appointed as the Captain of the Pennsylvania Jurisdiction, and you’re telling me that she didn’t tell you a scrap of that? Next you’re going to tell me that you’re the reason why she’s not the Captain anymore,” Cricket laughs, “Did you tell her you loved her too?”

Dee snarls and charges forward, kicking a pile of carefully stacked books across the ground. Cricket steps out of the way and holds his hands up. 

“Look, maybe she’s changed. I don’t know! I never had much to do with her after dropping out of the program except to come in here and steal the Ultra Dust every so often. She turned a blind eye to me distributing the dust on the streets, but it worked, right? We haven’t had a vampire prey on the homeless and hopeless in over a decade, and good thing too since there’s only three or four hunters left…”

Cricket continues to talk about how he’s some kind of valiant Robin Hood but Dee stops listening. She wanders further into the library, running her eyes over every object in the room. Most of the books are leather bound and the pages that are sticking out are so ancient that they’ve crinkled and turned brown. She looks at more and more titles. ‘Silver Weapons and the Weaknesses of Vampires’, ‘Dracula: Myths and Memoirs’, ‘Jack The Ripper: The Greatest Vampire Hunter the World Will Never Know’. She’s starting to think that maybe her withdrawals are spinning her a rather intense hallucination. 

When the rows and rows of books end, a section at the back opens out to red suede couches encircling a stone pillar with a massive, thick book open on top. Here, the air is cooler, the light dimmer, and it smells faintly of smoke and beeswax. Cricket follows her and keeps talking to her about various things but she’s enamoured by the sight of the large book marking the grand centrepiece of the room. She wanders over to the book and flips through the A3 sized pages. Each page on the left is titled with ‘Known Ultra Vampires’ and each page on the right is titled with ‘Volume 126’. It’s hard to believe that there could be 125 previous editions of a book this large, but Dee surrenders disbelief for the sake of her apparent hallucination.

She keeps turning the pages. Most contain a seemingly endless list of names under a heading ‘Victims’ with a subheading, ‘Hunters’ written in blue. Other names are highlighted in red, but Dee doesn’t study the pages long enough to figure out why. Then, when the list of names end, several blank pages remain as if waiting to be filled with new information. She finds a long piece of ribbon marking a section and turns to that chapter. It is marked with a new ‘Ultra Vampire’ name, accompanied with detailed drawings of people in a number of disguises. Curiously, the drawings are dated, 1638, 1788, 1850, 1901, and reach into the present. 

She has to hand it to her mind, everything about this whole place is so elaborate that she feels like she’s on a movie set. She starts to think, then, that maybe it  _ is _ a set. Maybe all of this is some kind of very expensive scheme that Charlie, Frank and even Mac have organised just to rub it in Dee’s face if she falls for the whole ‘vampire’ gimmick.

She starts laughing. 

“I know that it’s a lot to take in. You don’t have to believe it all” Cricket says, “It’s probably better if you don’t remember any of this stuff. Let’s just get the dust and-”

“Oh sure, I believe you. Keep telling me how you were in training to become a vampire hunter. Hilarious, by the way,” Dee says as she flips through the pages, getting closer and closer to today’s date. “I’m sure you can bed the craziest of hobos with that line.”

“Maybe I  _ should  _ be thanking you for making me quit the program before I got accepted. Artemis did get most of her hunters killed. I guess the new guy was trying to recruit me.”

“Shut up for a second…”

“You just told me to-”

“I know this guy,” Dee says. 

She points at  a pasted in newspaper clipping of the man who duct taped her brother to an exercise bike and got him shot to pieces. When Cricket stands beside her to look at the picture, Dee takes in the full volume of stink that’s wafting off him and it makes her lips curl and stomach churn to know that she probably smells the exact same way. Still, she doesn’t appreciate Cricket getting so close to her and imagines hitting Cricket with one of those prop candlesticks, and it’s isn’t even the worst thing that she has ever thought about doing to a person before, let alone Rickety Cricket. 

“Oh yeah, Malvo. I know him too.”

“ _You_ _know_ him?!”

“I know  _ of  _ him. He used to be a hunter,” Cricket says. 

“Right, a ‘vampire hunter’,” Dee mocks. 

“Yeah. It’s Ultra Vampires like Malvo that are the reason why Artemis felt the need to be totally transparent...,” Cricket explains, probably thinking that she has taken the bait. She only half listens to him, scanning the page to see if she can spot where Cricket’s reading his script from because she doubts that he’s skilled enough to memorise all this stuff on his own. “...because Malvo was a loyal hunter for decades. The moment he found out about how to become a vampire, he betrayed his own jurisdiction and ate them all. I still can’t believe Artemis didn’t tell you this. She is not the same blabbermouth I knew ten years ago.”

Dee laughs when Cricket say that some dude ‘ate’ people, but the laughter is cut short when she spots a name at the very bottom of Malvo’s victim list which is highlighted in red. Don Chumph. 

“Okay, you didn’t have to bring my brother into this! The joke has gone too far now guys!” Dee shouts.

“Your brother?” Cricket questions.

Dee’s ears feel hot. Cricket looks genuinely confused, as if he truly doesn’t know what’s going on here or how Don Chumph’s name has any relation to her brother and it’s making her furious. She grabs the book by the cover and stabs the highlighted name with her forefinger. Her nail cuts through the paper. 

“Dennis pissed off to North Dakota or Minnesota or wherever the hell he went, for a year without  _ any _ contact-”

“I don’t own a phone and I still come and check on you guys,” Cricket says. 

“Good for you Cricket! Do you want me to thank you for coming to use our bathroom to shoot up??”

“And shower.”

“Yuck. No, whatever! This isn’t about you! Dennis said he wanted to be a Dad but instead he set up shop in Duluth and pretended to be some fitness instructor,” Dee says, now stabbing the photo of the man with the stupid bowl cut, “And this Malvo son of a bitch framed him for a blackmail deal Dennis got into and got him killed!”

Cricket bites his lips as he studies the page. “Well it says here that Don Chumph is likely Malvo’s vampire. Are you sure that’s Dennis? It’s kind of a common name… Oh no wait, you said Dennis was in Duluth? Yeah… it says Malvo was in the area too.”

Dee steps back, clutching her chest as she tries not to retch. She starts laughing hysterically, wheezing out the words, “What is going on. What….” 

“Shh! Keep it down!” Cricket insists. 

“Alright, alright!” She snaps, “Charlie? Mac? Frank? The prank’s over now, guys. You can come out!”

“God will you shut up?!” Cricket hisses, “This isn’t a prank!”

Dee’s eyes go wide. “Like I’m going to believe that. Ohhh, sweet jesus… What did you guys offer him, huh?” She bellows, glaring around the room as if to spot one of them hiding in a nook somewhere. “You must have bought him a lifetime supply of citrus to get him to accept this!” She starts rummaging through the room, knocking over books and moving chairs and kicking down everything in her way. “If I found out that Cricket is already living in my brother’s bedroom-”

“Dee!”

“Jesus Christ!! Where  _ are _ you guys hiding?! What’s - oh no.”

She lurches back after having kicked over a candle which immediately sets scattered pages over the floor on fire. The flames quickly spread and catch onto the bookshelves that line the back wall. That’s it… she can smoke the boys out. 

“I’m not gonna let fire take me again!!” Cricket cries as he darts down the aisle toward the door. 

Just as he reaches it, the door swings open with such force that it knocks Cricket down to the ground. He tumbles across the stone floor and scrambles to look up at Dee’s Lawyer, the so called ‘Captain’ scowling down at him. Before stepping over Cricket, he looks down the aisle and spots Dee standing beside the shattered candlestick and spreading fire. 

“YOU PEOPLE!!!!” He bellows, flying down the aisle and pushing Dee out of the way. 

The fire is quickly consuming the dry, old books and has already spread across the back wall and the sides encroaching the many rows of books that form the aisles in the library. Soon, the fuel will be enough to enable the fire to jump across. Dee watches as The Lawyer snatches a tapestry from a wall and tries to swat it against the fire before it can make the jump to the closest aisle. 

“THIS is why having a library FULL of ORIGINAL COPY BOOKS and NO DIGITAL BACK UPS is a terrible idea!!!!”

“And the candles,” Dee offers. 

“AND THE GODDAMN CANDLES!”

Behind her, Dee hears more footsteps. She prepares herself to face Charlie and Frank, balling her fists, but instead it’s the woman from earlier. She moves around Cricket without paying any mind to him fleeing out the door, and rushes down to join them. She looks on in amazement at the growing fire, coming to stand beside Dee as they both watch the flames begin to lick the ceiling. The Lawyer hopelessly tries to stamp out the fire, snatching another tapestry off the wall and using it to unsuccessfully stamp out more flames. 

Dee’s face is as hot as the building inferno. Her clothes are drying quickly, turning crisp and hard around her skin. She thinks about Dennis’ mangled body in the gold trimmed casket. How he had been unrecognisable. How Frank had sued the hospital and taken all his winnings offshore with Charlie. How they couldn’t possibly be smart enough to plan a prank like this in hindsight. How Mac might have been bored enough to do it but wouldn’t be bothered with a scheme as long and detailed as pretending vampires exist and that Dennis could be one of them. That’s more Frank’s style. Or Dennis’.... 

She chokes. She hadn’t buried Dennis at all, had she? His body was unrecognisable not because the body had been torn to shreds, but because it wasn’t her brother at all. Dennis planned it. Planned all of this. That bastard  _ would _ go so far as to fake his own death all so that he didn’t have to be a father anymore, and wouldn’t have to return to Philadelphia with his tail between his legs. She drags her fingers down her face, fingernails collecting hot sweat. He couldn’t just call. Of course Dennis would make her find him in the most elaborate way possible. Well, she’ll find him alright. She’ll hunt him down and kill him herself for putting her through actual insanity. 

“O, I better save that,” The woman says in an annoying ND accent. She nods at the large book in the centre of the room. “Ma’am, will you help me carry it out? Unless you’re a vampire. You’re not a vampire, are ya?” 

Dee turns to glare at her, then stalks toward the book. Flames jump to the aisles now, forming a thick ring of fire in the back end of the library. The Lawyer’s second tapestry burns up and he throws his arms up in frustration. That’s when he spots the woman next to Dee. 

“GLORIA?!”

“Suppose if ya were, I wouldn’t be here,” The woman says as she tries to keep up with Dee’s pace.

“GLORIA! IF YOU’RE HERE, WHO'S MINDING THE PRISONERS?!”

“Ya, the deaf fella punched me in the gut and ran out,” she says offhandedly as she goes to close the book. 

Before she can, Dee slams her hand down on the left side and tears out the page on the right containing the details about her brother. She shoves it into her bra, then turns and marches away. 

“You’re really no help at all, are ya?”

Dee leaves them to deal with the fire and steps out into the hallway. She recognises the way she and Cricket had come from by the lingering smell travelling down the left side of the hallway. There’s no way she’s going to subject herself to that walk of shame again, so she turns to take the opposite direction only to spot The Waitress and her cousin lurched out of a room with her bag stuffed with stolen goods. 

The Waitress freezes in the hallway. 

“Dee?! What are you doing here?!!”

The heat from the fire Dee left in the library warms Dee’s back.

“I’m going to murder Dennis.”

The Waitress gives her a confused look, and her cousin tugs her further down the hall. “He’s already-”

“No, he’s not. Not yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading :) i'll hope to keep up with the regular updates so long as uni doesn't stress me out too much!


	19. previously, in Bemidji

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick recap: Mac has just witnessed Dennis kill someone and raise a man from the dead. Upon realising that he had been seen, he flees.

Mac plants himself in the centre of a well kept baseball field, the grass more lush than any field he’s ever seen in Philly. He hopes that the plushy grass will be soft enough to serve as a pillow, but he cannot find sleep with the morning sun rising along the flat horizon and the horror of what he’d just witnessed still fresh in his mind. He still can’t believe yet, yet the reality of it grips him and makes him restless.

He sits up and rotates 360 degrees every so often to make sure that he’s covering all bases. No one is going to sneak up on him and rip his head off like Dennis did to that mortician dude. Being out in the open maybe isn’t the best place to hide, but his keen vampire senses will help him sniff out danger before it happens, just like Dr. Dolph Lundgren - the scientist with the brains and the brawn. He’s got the brawn with being the most invincible vampire the world has ever seen considering he’s not burning up from the morning sun. That’s has to mean something. And he’s got the brains because actually, the centre of a field is the best place to seek protection because regular vampires aren’t going to be able to approach him with all the dawn breaking.

While he waits for the sun to rise high enough to ensure a safe passage, he plays games on his cell phone. When it’s bright enough, and his badass imperceptibility proves true, he looks up how to get out of Bemidji, only to have his phone flash a low battery warning sign on screen. He can’t go back and charge his phone at Mandy’s with all the cops around. He’s going to have to get to the regional bus station and hope that his phone holds out until then.

He stands up and almost falls over again with the blood in his legs rushing to rebuild the circulations. As he walks along his course, his legs slowly recuperate, but still feel like they’re made of metal as if he’s dragging cold, slightly damp drain pipes around in place of his legs. The dampness wigs him out to no end. He _knows_ that it’s just dew from the grass, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s covered in blood only because he’d witnessed a literal blood bath.

It’s just, he had no idea that that much blood could come out of a human being. It’s partly why he thinks this whole thing is some kind of elaborate prank on Mac’s part. It would explain a lot. But he isn’t willing to play Dennis’ games anymore. He just wants to go back to Philly and see what Charlie’s up to and make use of Paddy’s alcohol supplies without having to pay for it, but he’s starting to think it’s going to be a little difficult considering Bemidji residents who are crazy enough to be awake at this time seem to send him weird looks, as if they recognise him. For all he knows, the police have already put out an APB for him, plus hundreds of Wanted Person posters which they’ve likely plastered all over the town, as small as it is. Everyone’s going to be looking for him. He wonders how much the award is.

When he arrived at the bus station, his face is red from the exertion, and the battery light on his cell blinks red. He locates the ticket booth and pulls out his wallet to pay for a ticket straight to Hollywood.

“Interstate? Sorry, buddy, the interstate bus don’t come ‘til Monday. You can pay for a bus to Minneapolis though. Comes in an hour,” The booth attendant says.

“Whatever, I just need to get out of this place,” Mac says, pulling out his credit card.

The booth attendant taps a sign that’s sticky taped to the glass window, and reads ‘Cash Only’. Mac grunts in annoyance. He had used the last of his cash to pay for the stupid overpriced food he’d ordered from the diner the night before. He asks the booth attendant where the nearest ATM is and has to walk about ten minutes to reach it.

Rows of shops line either side of the street. Most of them look like boring bits and bobs shops, with cobwebs in the awnings and a few even have closing down sale signs in the windows. On the other end of the street, on the corner, is the diner he’d made Dennis stop at. His stomach growls, and he stares at the diner for a little while before turning to the ATM that’s situated on the outside wall of the bank.

He inserts his card and hits the withdraw cash button. Obnoxiously large letters appear on the screen informing him that he has ‘insufficient funds’. He goes back to the main menu and tries the whole process again, only to get the same result. He punches the machine. Shortly after, the machine eats his card and refuses to spit it out again no matter how many times Mac slams his fists on all of the buttons.

After letting out his rage on the machine, he whips out his phone and dials the number on the ATM for assistance since the bank isn’t open yet. He agrees to the phone call being recorded for training purposes, then is directed to a telephone assistant.

“Hi there, you’re having issues with accessing your funds at one of our ATM branches, is that correct?”

“Yeah, robot bitch, the machine at my card!”

“Oh dear,” the assistant replies without skipping a beat, “That means one of three things. Your hard has expired, your credit debt has exceeded your limit, or suspicious activity has been detected relating to the cardholder.”

“NOTHING SUSPICIOUS IS HAPPENING!!!” Mac shouts, then catches himself, “...Except my card… How do you expect me to get out of this shithole town if I can’t access my money?”

“Sir, the most common cause _is_ suspicious account activity. Let me check your account status. Can I have your account details?”

With some difficulty, Mac is able to prove that he is the account holder despite not remembering his account number, then he’s put on hold. After some time, the attendant wires back in and says, “It appears that your joint account holder has transferred out excess funds from your shared account.”

“What?”

“My records are showing that your wife, Deandra Reynolds, withdrew-”

“I DON’T HAVE A GODDAMN WIFE YOU HOMOPHOBIC BITCH!”

“Oh, I’m sorry to be presumptuous, but logically a joint account holder can only be related to the main account user. I’m seeing the names right here written as a spousal record. Ronald McDonald and Deandra Reynolds. Unless, she’s your mother?”

Mac makes a retching noise.

The assistant pauses, a note of tiredness in her voice as she asks, “Sister?”

“I’d rather screw The Waitress than have Dee as my sister!”

The woman pauses again. “Please hold the line, I’ll need to speak with one of my superiors.”

The woman’s voice cuts off abruptly to the hold music. Mac wouldn’t have paid any attention to the song if he hadn’t distinctly heard three numbers being dialled during the phone call.

He hangs up.

Not only was his entire conversation just recorded, he had stupidly been standing right in front of the ATM where they have cameras pointed at his goddamn face. Without a doubt, the police would already be on their way to arrest him. Mac dashes around the corner and runs down a side street, stopping only when he can’t run anymore. He eases down on a low wooden fence, his leg muscles burning with pain. He breathes in the cool morning air, which is almost painful to inhale since it’s so clean. When he thinks he can get moving again, he tries to step forward, but his body is instantly wrapped in pins and needles which forces him back on the fence.

He breathes heavily, his chest heaving, his throat dry. He looks at his phone. The battery is critically low but he dials Dee’s number anyway.

The phone rings only once before she answers. “WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN I’VE-”

“DEE YOU BITCH! WHAT DID YOU DO WITH MY MONEY?”

"Wow, yes, hi Mac," Dee says in a sweet voice, "Did you really think you could run off with my car and expect me to do nothing about it?" She laughs derisively, "You.... mindless idiot. I took the market price of my car from your account as a deposit. Do you know how many times you guys have totalled my cars? Every single car I have ever owned! If I find out that you got even a scratch on my car, I'm clearing out your whole account!" 

Mac doesn't actually listen to half of what she's saying because he hangs up. Then blocks her number before she realises and calls back once she figures out that he has totally trashed her car. He calls Charlie instead. 

“Hey dude, where have you been?” Charlie says in a smooth, lazy kind of way when he answers.

“Charlie! I need you to get Frank to transfer me money!”

It sounds windy wherever Charlie is. “I can’t I’m-”

“Jesus, Charlie! You will not even _believe_ what those bastards have done to me! DEE has STOLEN MY MONEY! And DENNIS?! Oh my God, even worse, dude. HE THREW ME TO THE WOLVES!!!”

“Not this shit again.”

“YEAH! He was about to sacrifice me to this monster, so I punched the two of them so hard that they flew against the wall and I now have a tremendous amount of douchebag blood all over my knuckles from totally laying into them. And now the cops are on my tail because Dennis crashed Dee’s car and then stole a cop car and I’m pretty sure the cops just saw me in the camera of the ATM so I gotta get out of here quick! Can you wire Mandy some money that I can use to buy a gun?!”

“Woah - what’s going on here?”

“I just told you! I just obliterated a morgue dude and an undead body and Dennis was, well he was - ugh I still can’t _say_ it!! God damn it! Just - CHARLIE! The cops are after me! And I need a gun, and oh! You should meet me in Hollywood! I have a doppelganger there! He’s a policeman and I’m totally gonna pretend to be him to get like police privileges and shit. I’ve already made use of it when I broke into the FBI--”

“--Hold up! FBI?! What the--”

“--No, listen to me Charlie, I need the money! I can’t do anything unless you transfer the money already!”

“I can’t! I’m on a cruise.”

Mac stops. “YOU WENT ON A CRUISE WITHOUT ME?! YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVE CRUISES!!”

“Dude we didn’t know where you were and it was a time sensitive thing, you know? I didn’t even pack any changes of clothes for my kid. I’ve had to use all kinds of things as diap--”

Charlie’s voice cuts off. Mac looks down at the black screen on his cell.

“God _damn_ it!”

“You have a foul mouth, Ronald,” Someone says.

Mac jumps, startled, and realises that a car has rolled up in front of him. A man with grey hair is leaning out of the rolled down window. Mac’s heart skips a beat. It is, without a doubt in this world, the guy Dennis had resurrected from the dead just a few hours ago. The radioactive waves from his cell must have interfered with Mac’s vampire powers and allowed the monster to sneak up on him.

He shivers, adrenalin rippling over his spine, but he’s so exhausted, he can’t act on his instincts that tell him to run. He wrings his wrists.

“What?”

The man bares his teeth, revealing that the bottom row is crooked and blood stained. “Are you Ronald?”

Mac thinks that literally the only option he has is to bolt back onto the main street where he can run into a shop and lose the guy by exiting out the back. If he does that, then there’s probably going to be someone he runs into who he can use a sa human shield while he runs, like they do in the movies. He just needs to continue with this small talk to distract the dude enough to make his escape.

“Who’s asking?”

The man sits back in his seat and glances in the rearview mirror. “Is this asshole really your guy?”

Dennis’ muffled voice replies, “Yep!”

The man promptly turns back to peer at Mac. “Get in.”

“Uh, what the hell?!” Mac exclaims as, against the very fibre of Mac’s being, he strangely obeys.

It’s as if he doesn’t have any control over his own body. Trying to fight it hurts so bad, like he’s walking against a forcefield made out of rusty nails just like Charlie’s rat basher, minus the acidic goop. He literally has no choice but to submit to the course that he’s feet are taking. Thankfully, the sensation ends when he sits down in the passenger seat of the car.

“Buckle up, son,” The guy tells him.

Again, Mac is powerless to disobey the guy’s command. He grabs the seatbelt and clacks it in, petrified that there’ll be no escape now.

“Where are you taking me?”

The guy glances at him briefly, a crooked smile on his face.

“Prison.”


	20. Fire in the water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wooo hi guys! i'm so sorry it's been almost 3 months since the last update! this year has really flown by... been so busy, so little time to write. I have managed to write some more chapters in the few weeks that have been stress-free, so I'm going to post two to start off with. They should remind long-time readers about what's happening - so for first time readers, you might find it a little recap-y. i hope you like it though!

The fire is neither preceding nor proceeding. It exists within her, scorching underneath her skin, across her brow, beneath her feet. Screams. Some woman talking to her, asking her questions in that stupid Minnesotan accent… Fire spreading around her, rising up the walls, raking down her back. She’s walked on fire before. Walking out, the heat exploding behind her, forcing her forward until she’s barrelling down a stone hallway with some bitch she apparently went to high school with and some hot deaf dude that bitch is supposedly related to and they’re pushing and pulling and she’s shoving her way up a flight of stairs and banging through a dilapidated church where the night beams through where there should be a ceiling. 

The guy kicks the heavy doors clean open, dirty smoke swamping around them thicker and darker than the night around the radiant city.

The air stinks of homeless people who stand up like startled owls, eyes wide, staring, or running in, or running away when Dee and co break out on the top stair.

The hot evening blinks dimly under the rising smoke, then bursts as the fire takes hold of the church. The chase hot on her heels. The Waitress and her cousin push passed, fleeing at top speed. Bullet cartridges fall from a bag - her bag - as they run, and the metal clatters over the pavement, and Dee dreams about how many of those she can make her brother swallow. 

  
  


She chases them to The Waitress’ secret apartment. Oh yeah, it’s existence was no secret to her. She knew that Frank had set her up. Understandable. Who would want to raise a baby in Charlie’s filthy apartment?

Dee looks at herself in The Waitress’ bathroom mirror. Her head’s shaking, hair flying. She drops her face into the sink and takes large gulps of the running water. Spits out the water that sloshes around her mouth and misses her throat and gulps down some more. Tries to quench her thirst and douse the fire that’s still rifling through her bones. Screams licking around her ears, echoes. It was an accident. She hadn’t meant to…. She’s burned before. Razed a room, razed an apartment, razed a house of God.

She gets into the shower. Peels off her clothes like sunburnt skin. Black ash and brown shit twisting down the drain, gurgling, gagging. Screaming, that woman had been screaming. She didn’t mean to do it. She didn’t actually want to hurt anyone but that god damn bitch wouldn’t shut up and she didn’t want to hear them scream anymore. A puff of air to the flame, a fuel laden gust to the furnace. She’s never actually wanted to kill anyone, never meant to, just wanted to hurt people. Just wanted to make them stop. Take revenge. Burn down what’s old and rotten and let the heat seed fresh growth. 

Out of the shower smelling like peaches, thick fluffy towel around her body, out in the messy living room, boxes everywhere. The Waitress and her cousin slouched at a table, smoking. She cinches the towel beneath her armpits and snatches the pack but drops the cigarettes over the ground. They scatter. Her fingers tremble as she squats and tries to collect them all, forces them back into the packet at odd ends. 

She stands up with a jolt when The Waitress puts her hand on her shoulder. A soft touch that’s like ice to her fire. She shirks it off. Clasps a cigarette between her fingers and smokes and smokes another. The sound of their heaving chests high on air and then high on nicotine. 

Dee filters out the one sided spoken conversation The Waitress is having. Filters out the screaming and the light and keeps the blackness that fills within her. A sickness. A desire to gain revenge that oscillates black hurricanes within the dry landscape of her lungs. Cinders rolling in the aftermath, and a tiny ring around the tip of her cigarette marrying herself to set the blaze anew. 


	21. Breathless

**** The Waitress keeps a tight grip on the heavy bag of stolen ammunition while she struggles to key into her apartment. She refuses help and makes the others keep their distance, wary that her cousin can very easily snatch the bag away and run before she can make sure he’ll deliver on her promise.

She bristles when she smells Dee following them inside, but she’s too exhausted from running to fight against Dee (and too hesitant to get close to her stench) and lets her march straight toward the bathroom where she throws up in the sink. Hopefully  _ in  _ the sink. She doesn’t want to think about having to clean it up later if she missed (and yet Dee had the audacity to ask her to clean the whole bar). All she can currently do is collapse in the one chair that isn’t currently occupied by her cousin and become one with the flimsy plastic (it’s all Frank would pay for). 

She hears the shower start to run. The loud gush of water provides a backdrop of white noise as she melts into the dining chair, her heart beating out of her throat, her body still shaking. It hurts to breathe. 

She doesn’t think she has ever ran so much in her entire life. Put anymore speed on it and she could’ve stepped foot into another dimension. Although, maybe she has. The reality that she’s currently living is utterly otherworldly. She’d just been in the armoury of a  _ vampire hunter _ hideout (masquerading as a church) and had been filling Dee’s bag with as many silver bullets as she could fit and had fled the premises upon the building mysteriously catching on fire. That’s, somehow, not a practical joke because Charlie and Frank are on a cruise, she hasn’t seen Mac in weeks and Dennis is dead… Except Dee has it in her head that he’s alive, or is a vampire, or whatever he is - she has her heart set on murdering him. 

_ “I’m going to kill him!” _ Dee had yelled at random intervals as they fled. And many violent variations. 

The Waitress puts it all out of her mind for now. Focuses on catching her breath, and when the throbbing through her body starts to dull and the irritation of fresh air scraping down her windpipe reduces, she gets to her own task at hand. She  kicks the table in front of her, the leg of which which slams into Wes’ knee. He jolts out of his slouched position and glowers at her in annoyance. 

“We - safe here?” She wheezes while she signs. 

_ ‘Fire - good _ ,’ Wes signs lazily, reverting back to his slouch, arms crossed. 

“Oh yeah - good! Fire, vampires, murder?! The best!”

Wes ignores her, shutting his eyes briefly before fishing out a pack of cigarettes from a pocket hidden on the underside of his black suede jacket. The Waitress watches the fringes on his sleeves ruffle when he rummages through the various hidden pockets until he finds a lighter. He brings the flame to one cigarette crunched between his teeth. She swallows a hard, painful gulp of air. She hasn’t smoked in over a year. Her consciousness tells her that she should get off her ass and get a glass of water, but instead all she wants is to feel nicotine fill her lungs. 

Wes must see the longing in her eyes because he leans over the table, one elbow propped up and the burning cigarette offered between his fingers. With the day she’s had…. Why not? She accepts and they both lean back in their chairs, Wes watching her, The Waitress mesmerised by the immediate sense of calm that comes over her with just  _ holding _ the cigarette. 

Her attention snaps to the bathroom door when Dee smacks it open and stands in the doorway with one of The Waitress’ towels wrapped around her body. Dee takes one look at The Waitress smoking, then at Wes pulling out another cigarette from the pack and suddenly darts across the room to snatch the cigarettes out of Wes’ hands. Wes looks hesitant to react. Certainly annoyed, but perhaps he’s put off by Dee’s appearance, or the faint sewage smell that hasn’t been successfully masked by peach body wash. 

She doesn’t look great though. Dee looks exactly how The Waitress feels. Her hair matted (though damp), her shoulders hunched and her body trembling. She has so much difficulty trying to extract a single cigarette that she drops the pack and scatters cigarettes all over the floor. She squats to gather the cigarettes together and tries to haphazardly shove the cigarettes back in the pack, paying no mind to the fact that her towel is about to slip off entirely. The Waitress lowers her bag to the ground with the intention of helping Dee, but the moment she lets go of the heavy bag, Wes lurches from his seat and tries to grab it. 

The Waitress yanks the bag back to her chest, her arms covering it like she’s protecting her baby, and accidentally bumps into Dee while doing so. Dee flinches away and scurries into the corner of the room amongst an assortment of boxes. The Waitress hears the click of the lighter behind her cousin looming over her. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” She signs, trying to match his intensity while sitting (which is not very convincing since she measures up to his hips). 

_ ‘Pass me the bag and you can be done with this.’ _

The Waitress cinches the bag between her armpit and her tummy so that she can furiously sign back, “Oh, that’s it? No, ‘thank you’ for helping you back there? No? Fine then. I’m not giving you what you want until you explain to me why you won’t kill someone for me when you dragged me through all of that just so that you can go and _ kill someone _ !!!”

‘ _ I’m killing a vampire not a human.’ _

“Oh, a  _ vampire _ ! Thank you for clarifying that, yes, that makes all the difference!”

_ ‘I don’t want to hurt you, _ ’ He signs, then puts his hand out in request.

When The Waitress refuses, he turns back to his chair and sits down in a flurry of shadowy fringes and a deep frown.

“Wes, I need you to understand the position that I’m in right now. Just this - what time is it? God how is it after midnight? Look, it was only yesterday that I found out that my baby has been kidnapped.  _ Kidnapped _ . And I legally cannot do anything about it until the end of the week. Then, all on the same day, you, my ‘long lost cousin’, turn up at my door and you expected me to translate a conversation that I didn’t even understand! A conversation in which you say you’re going to go kill a ‘vampire’ or whatever, and expect me to trust that you’ll actually come back and kill...” She stops herself, glancing at Dee, wondering if she’s even listening to her demanding her cousin to kill Charlie. Dee looks totally engrossed in smoking, but she decides to continue the conversation in sign language only.  _ ‘...I still want you to kill C-H-A-R-L-I-E. He’s a menace. He stalked me for over 15 years-’ _

Wes’ face turns dark the way it had the moment before he punched the transcriber in the guts.  _ ‘Did he rape you?’ _

The Waitress shakes her head vigorously.  _ ‘No! No. It was… consensual… but he tricked me. He said he wanted to have a baby and he’s been trying to ditch his responsibilities ever since!’  _ She swallows down tears, trying not to think about what Charlie could be doing to her baby right now, or not doing out of neglect.  _ ‘Believe me, he’s a terrible person. And he’s kidnapped my child! What more do you have to know for you to accept that he has to go!!’ _

_ ‘I said that I would.’ _

_ ‘I don’t believe it! I don’t trust you. All I know is that you need this crap to do your job and I’m only going to let you have it on my terms!’ _

Wes doesn’t make a response other than to cross his arms and glare at her. 

_ ‘This,’ _ The Waitress begins, slapping the bag. The ammo cartridges clang together.  _ ‘Is my security deposit so that you’ll do what I asked you to do.’ _

_ ‘There are other ways to get my job done.’  _

_ ‘Then why go through all the trouble of getting the ammo? Clearly you need this, which means you need me.’ _

The Waitress eyes him. His face is still, but she can tell, or hopes, that he’s contemplating her demand. She takes it as a good sign that he hasn’t already tried to knock her out like he had done to the poor transcriber in the vampire dungeon. She could definitely not take him if she tried. She’d go down in one punch even if she was well slept. 

_ ‘Fine. What are your terms?’ _

The Waitress is about to lay them out only at that second, Dee appears beside her having abandoned smoking like it’s 1995 and tries to yank the bag out of The Waitress’ hold. 

“Give me my bag back, you bitch!” Dee screeches. 

The Waitress pulls it back. “No! I’m not letting him have it!” 

“ _ He _ stole it from  _ me _ !” Dee digs her claws into the fabric of the bag and tries one more time to wrench it out of The Waitress’ hands, but fails. 

She both signs and says, “No one is getting this bag!! I’ll return it on my terms! MY TERMS!”

“Screw terms!” Dee snaps, “He didn’t even ask if he could borrow my bag!”

The Waitress stays firm in her position though struck by Dee’s point. It’s true that if it wasn’t for her cousin stealing Dee’s bag, she wouldn’t be involved in this mess. Though how or why she found Dee down in that place too, she has no idea. 

The Waitress shifts the weight of the bag to her other arm and awkwardly signs and says, “No one gets this before I understand exactly what’s going on here!”

Wes stands up again and towers above Dee by at least six inches.  _ ‘It will take too long to explain _ ,’ Wes signs, ‘ _ It’s better for you to just give me the bag.’ _

Threatened by the tall people crowding her space, The Waitress leaps out of her chair and backs away a few steps, keeping the bag to her chest and making sure no ammo falls out. 

“Everyone just stand back!” She shouts. 

Wes glares at her wide eyed. Dee squints, the skin around her eyes tighter than the towel around her body. The Waitress returns their gaze, trying again to keep a level of intensity but struggles through it when a cough chokes out of her lungs steeped in incredulity and despair.  

“This is insane!” The Waitress says loudly, then quietly, “This is actually insane.”

“I don’t get any of this either you stupid bitch but you know what would help me right now?” Dee retorts, speaking through gritted teeth. “You giving my shit back!”

“I already-”

“Shut up and give it!” Dee snaps, moving toward her. 

The Waitress backs away the same distance. Wes stands still, watching the situation. Between the two, she’s absolutely more terrified of Dee than her cousin (despite his talk of murdering people). In the moment, she decides it would be wise to comply with Dee, but instead of giving her the bag straight away, she has a plan to keep herself in the game. She edges toward some boxes and rummages through them with one hand, all the while keeping her eyes jumping from Wes and Dee as a warning for them to keep their distance. She glances down at the boxes for milliseconds at a time until she finds an empty bag of hers that she can transfer the contents into. 

When she’s done, she tosses Dee her original bag (plus a dress she hasn’t been able to unpack yet) and puts her arms through the straps of a new ammo-filled bag backwards so that the bag sits on her front. As soon as Dee has her bag, she immediately drops the dress on the ground and starts going through the bag even though it’s empty. She squats as the searching becomes more vigorous. The towel falls down to her waist and she hurriedly pulls it up again then continues turning the pockets inside out. A noise arises out of her that becomes increasingly high pitched the more frustrated she becomes. 

“God damn it! Where did you put it?!”

The Waitress imagines that it must be an uncomfortable sight for her cousin to see someone in the state that Dee’s in. The steam and the dampness from the shower that had, for a short time, softened Dee’s edges, now exposes her body to dryness, revealing Dee’s red and flaky skin, and the welts around her nose and lips. For The Waitress, it’s normal to see her like this. She’s no stranger to The Gang’s wild behaviour, or to what addiction looks like. She wonders if her cousin feels sorry for Dee. It would be a mistake - Dee has always been a manipulative bitch, yet The Waitress has a shred of sympathy left for the woman too (even though, without fail, any spot of The Waitress’ kindness has always backfired on her in the past). It’s just that, if this vampire business is true, then Dennis has lied to them all. 

“Whatever you’re looking for… it’s not in there,” The Waitress says, feeling genuinely bad that her cousin had just snatched Dee’s bag from her earlier with no explanation (let alone manners). Perhaps if her mother hadn’t apparently got her ‘exiled’ from the vampire hunter family, then she’d also have grown up to be a distant and rude person. 

“...Cricket good money for that coke!” Dee is saying. She stands up, wipes her face with the back of her hand. “Where’s your drugs? Charlie told me you’ve been swallowing something twice daily. I want it.”

The Waitress laughs nervously. “I just had a baby! Why would I have any drugs?!”

“Oh get off your high horse, I just caught you smoking.”

Wes has drifted back to his chair again, and hits the table with his palm to get his cousin’s attention. She glances over, and from there she can see his face shrouded in shadows, not from his semi-permanent frown but from the weariness of an exhausted man. 

_ ‘Why is she still here?’ _ Wes signs.

“Right. Dee, it’s time for you to go. I’ll get that dress back from you later.”

Dee looks down at the crumpled dress on the carpet, then back to The Waitress, then Wes. “Oh no. You both have a bunch of explaining to do. I need to know why you  _ had  _ to steal  _ my  _ bag and take it into…. Whatever that place was! And why I found out that my brother, who we  _ all _ thought was  _ dead _ , has actually been living it up as, what, a  _ vampire _ , this whole time?! And I only found that out because I followed you guys?! How does that… how-”

The Waitress interjects, “Why would you think he’s not dead?! We were both at the funeral!!”

“Oh, I know he’s  _ something _ ,” Dee says, “And I want some god damn answers. I’ll just...”

She snatches the dress from the floor and goes into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her. The Waitress jumps at the sound even though she knows it’s coming. Dee emerges again with the towel discarded and the yellow sundress on. Annoyingly, it looks better on Dee than it ever did on The Waitress. Dee goes over to Wes and folds out a crumpled piece of paper over the dining table. 

“You,” Dee says, pointing at Wes then pointing at the paper, “The red means that my brother is a vampire, right?” 

Wes studies the paper, then signs,  _ ‘Where did you get this?’ _

“What did he say?” Dee asks, beckoning The Waitress over. 

The Waitress babies the bag and goes to stand beside Dee, with Wes on the opposite side, and peers over at the piece of paper. The name ‘Don Chumph’ is highlighted in red under a large heading of a name Wes, and that leader man, had mentioned earlier; ‘Lorne Malvo’. 

“Where does it say Dennis’ name?”

Dee replies in a mocking tone, “Er, right here,” she stabs her finger at ‘Don Chumph’, “Don’t you remember it was who Dennis was pretending to be when he was up in Minnesota! Hey - he’s saying something. Come on, you need to translate it!”

The Waitress, sick to death of translating herself  _ and _ her cousin at the same time, leaves for a moment to grab some paper and pens from her bedroom and brings everything back for them to use to communicate with Wes. She makes sure to keep her bag out of reach when she hands the items over. 

Wes pens, ‘ _ Redis your brother?’ _

“Yeah,” Dee says, nodding.

_ ‘Turned by Malvo,’  _ Wes writes, clenching his teeth as he does so. 

“Turned? Into a vampire?” Dee asks, then writes her question down on her paper and shows Wes. 

“But we  _ went  _ to his funeral! I  _ saw _ him being buried!” The Waitress repeats, only writing down the second half.

Wes shakes his head.  _ ‘Common for V to leave body remnants of H which sustained revival. Could you identify brother’s body?’ _

The Waitress shakes her head, but Dee writes,  _ ‘I saw him in Duluth. I identified his body.’  _

Wes pens,  _ ‘At the burial, he was mangled, correct?” _

Both women nod their heads. 

Wes flips the page.  _ ‘When?’ _

_ ‘Last month’  _

Wes looks annoyed.  _ ‘Too long. Won’t be active.’  _

_ ‘Active?’ _ Dee pens. 

_ ‘Dead,’  _ Wes underlines. 

_ ‘How do you know?!’  _ Dee replies.

_ ‘Hunted Malvo for five years.’  _

_ ‘So?’ _ The Waitress writes. 

_ ‘I know what he does!’ _

_ ‘What does he do??’  _ Dee writes, each of them increasingly frustrated. 

_ ‘Too much to explain. Will take too long!’  _

Dee slams her palm on the table and then furiously writes,  _ ‘If there is a chance my brother is alive, I have to find him.’ _

_ ‘Very unlikely,’  _ Wes replies,  _ ‘Malvo would have ended him by now.’ _

Thirsty for revenge, Dee writes,  _ ‘Malvo is the guy who got my brother killed in the first place. I will kill him!!’  _

_ ‘I will be the one to kill him,’  _  Wes writes, his lips thin,  _ ‘You can help.’  _

_ ‘She’s not coming with us,’  _ The Waitress writes, and tries to make it so only Wes sees it, but Dee gets up to read the message. 

“And what makes you think  _ you’re _ invited to this fight? What the hell can you do?! You don’t even have any money!”

“I have what he needs to fight,” The Waitress says, gesturing to the bag on her chest. 

“That? That there? What’s in there?”

“Bullets.”

“Cool, I don’t need you for that! I’ll stop by Wallmart and buy me and Wes some machine guns and ammo.”

“They’re special bullets. They’re silver. And he doesn’t think he can kill a vampire without them.”

“Whatever. You realise that the moment you close your eyes, he’s going to take them from you. Or I will.”

“I won’t let that happen,” The Waitress says firmly. 

“Can’t you just, not think you’re included in another one of my things? You’re such a copycat. Why do you have to be like this all the time?”

“I’m not - this isn’t  _ your thing _ -” But it’s pointless to argue with Dee, she’s already onto the next thing. 

“At least Wes is hot. It must run on his side of the family,” Dee says, giving Wes a flirty look (which he totally ignores). 

“Whatever. You do realise that this whole… whatever this is - hunting down a vampire - isn’t going to get going because Wes doesn’t know where the guy is. That’s part of why he’s here… I think.”

Dee’s face drops. She writes,  _ ‘You don’t know where Malvo is?!’ _

Wes shakes his head.  _ ‘I have a lead in Minneapolis.’ _

“God damn  _ Minneapolis?! _ Fine! But let me make this clear, bitch, I’m not paying for anything for you when you realise you need to come back to Philly for your kid!”

_ ‘Didn’t you say there was something that was corrupt there?’  _ The Waitress writes, trying to move the conversation back to getting more information out of her cousin. 

_ ‘MN HQ is corrupt. We have an advantage. They don’t know who you are.’  _

_ ‘Me?!’  _ The Waitress signs. 

_ ‘Money trail leads to MN. We go there, we find answers. I go in, I get hung. You go in, you won’t.’ _

“Wait,” The Waitress says as she writes,  _ ‘Weren’t you telling that guy that you were going to kill someone called Varga?’ _

_ ‘UV,’ _ Wes underlines ‘UV’.  _ ‘Varga will be ended. Malvo will die first.’ _

“Yeah, you’re going to have to get him to explain that shit,” Dee tells The Waitress. 

_ ‘Explain _ ,’ She writes in response.

Wes shakes his head.  _ ‘We need to go asap.’ _

The Waitress underlines what she just wrote, to which Wes underlines his words. 

_ ‘Fine, I’ll call a cab to the airport and you can explain-’ _

Wes holds up his hand, then writes,  _ ‘Can’t fly. Wanted in 3 states.’  _

“He wasn’t kidding about killing people,” The Waitress says. 

Wes writes,  _ ‘Car?’ _

The Waitress shakes her head. 

“You know what,” Dee interjects, “I’ve been wondering what to spend my new found wealth on-”

“New found wealth?! Frank gave you some of his sue money but not me?!”

“Frank hasn’t given me shit! And  _ why _ would he give  _ you _ any?!”

“Because if it wasn’t for me he would never have a grandchild!”

“Yeah and I’m his daughter and yet he didn’t give me a god damn dime.”

“It’ll  _ really _ show him when he finds out that you’ve spent his money on drugs,” The Waitress snaps. 

“I told you, you dumb bitch, I don’t have  _ any  _ of his money. It’s  _ my  _ money. No one ever gave me Dennis’ share of the bar so I took it for myself and  _ you _ lost all the coke I bought with the liquidised share so you owe me for that too!”

_ ‘Car, Y/N?’ _

“Translate this for me,” Dee tells The Waitress, “I did until Mac decided to ‘borrow’ my car a week ago but I wasn’t going to let him walk all over me like the gang used to. I took money out of his account to insure myself in case anything happened. I knew that bastard would do something to it, and I was proved right when I got a call from Mandy yesterday confirming that Mac can’t be in a vehicle without finding some way to total it. He’s bought me a new car already. All I have to do is choose a car that I deserve.”

“So basically you stole his money. You’re a hypocrite and a criminal,” The Waitress states. 

“He stole my car first!” Dee protests. 

Though The Waitress hadn’t translated Dee’s little speech, Wes seemed to gather that Dee was looking to buy. He writes,  _ ‘No window shopping. Tomorrow, early,  buy drive-away car. Fill tank. Long drive.’  _

“If I’m doing this,” Dee says, “You better tell us exactly how vampires can exist in the 21st Century without anyone knowing about it.”

The Waitress agrees and writes,  _ ‘We do this, you tell us everything. No excuses. “Long drive” - remember?’ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be back with an update next week!


	22. Road Trips (Side A)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter is quite long! close to 6k, but i felt it wouldn't work so well if i split it up.) 
> 
> Also **I changed the name of the series! Sorry for the confusion - The whole series is now called ' _Murmurations_ '. The first part, previously called _Bodies Lie and Tend To Break_ , is now called _Murmurations: Dennis & Mac Die_. This part is now called _Murmurations: The Rise of Dee_. ** Now the titles are more meaningful!

_“Where are you taking me?” Mac asks._

_The guy glances at him briefly, a crooked smile on his face._

_“Prison.”_

“PRISON?!”

Mac looks at the man, waiting for an explanation. He doesn’t think he’s ever waited so long for someone to answer him. He repeats his exclamation once more but is again met with dead silence.

Mac drops his mouth, gobsmacked, and stares out at the town of Bemidji which is quickly disappearing behind them. The low density buildings give way to the empty highway which stretches out over the flat countryside. Farm animals scamper to the opposite sides of the fields as they pass. A funny shaped tree disappears too quickly. Even wire fences demolish themselves into the ground and become overgrown with weeds the further away from town they drive. There’s not a single thing to fixate on except the prospect of Mac being taken to prison.

Indignantly, Mac cries, “You can’t take me to prison! I haven’t done anything wrong in my entire life!”

The man says nothing in response. He simply stares at the road.

The tar slips beneath the car, warmed by the rising sun and tempered by the heat of the vehicle. Mac stares at the tops of his hands which rest on his thighs. His brain tells his hands to yank the seatbelt out, open the door and barrel roll out of the moving vehicle but the signals never leave his head. He tries something else, tells his hands to adjust the air conditioning, fiddles the dial all the way around and good, great, that works! Trying to extract himself from this situation? No can do.

Sweat rolls off his forehead as profusely as Dennis sweats when he has sex, and just as uncomfortable too since there’s nothing pleasurable about being supernaturally forced to remain seated beside an undead dude who reeks of blood.

“Come on, man, I swear to God, I didn’t do anything!”

The man exudes a small, amused puff of air. His eyes remain fixed on the road ahead. Mac bites his thumb, tries sucking it to calm himself and stop himself from crying but his skin tastes like blood and heaven’s no place for liars.

“Fine! I stole a car but it wasn’t my fault! It was Dennis! He straight up murdered an undercover cop and forced me to take his car! Dennis made me, I swear!” Mac has a sudden thought and adds, “But technically it’s not a crime since I’m _also_ an undercover cop from LA. Run a facial recognition thing or whatever, you’ll find me in the system.”

This earns him a curve in the man’s lips, a sly expression on his face, but still no dismissal.

Mac rubs his hands over his face, racks his brain for anything that can help his case.

“Also I don’t know for sure because I was asleep at the time but I think Dennis might have murdered a bunch of college girls at a motel! Plus a bunch of other illegal shit. He’s definitely the one you want to put in prison, not me!”

Mac hears some movement in the trunk, a kick against something, a muffled noise.

“I’m not a cop,” The man says blankly.  

“You’re _not_?!”

The man still doesn’t look at him.

“Yeah, well, _I_ am a cop so you better unarrest me right now! I mean it!”

The man reduces the pressure on the accelerator as he chuckles.

“If you don’t let me out, I’ll arrest you myself!”

The man lifts his foot off the accelerator completely, clutching his stomach as he laughs.

“Don’t laugh at me! This is serious! Pretending to be a cop is a state - is a national offense!”

The guy wipes tears from his eyes and slowly presses his foot down on the pedal once more. Mac sits there dumbfounded.

“You can’t take me to prison,” Mac insists, “I’m gay! I’ll probably be okay though because I’ve gained mass,” Mac looks down at his biceps and flexes them. “But I still don’t wanna go, especially not the same one as my Dad. Are you taking me to prison in Philly? Or do I get a choice? I hate this goddamn state but I’ll go to prison here if it means I won’t have to be in the same prison as my Dad. I mean, I love my Dad but I’m pretty sure he still wants to kill me and I think I have a chance at rekindling our fractured relationship if I were in a different prison than him. You know, that way we could like, bond over both being wrongly imprisoned and eventually reunite. What am I being arrested for anyway?”

“You’re not going to prison, he is,” The man says, his laughter finally subsiding.

Mac shrinks. “...You’re not going to kill me, are you?”

The man shakes his head in response.

Mac crosses his arms. “Good. I knew that was gonna be the answer because you’re like me, and we wouldn’t kill people because we’re more badass than Dennis.”

The man glances at him briefly, then back to the road. He coughs. “What do you mean by that, son?”

Mac looks down at his biceps bulging over his chest. He lifts his chin. “We’re like, superior than Dennis.”

The guy blinks, his lips wrinkling like he’s trying to hold something back.

“Yeah, ‘cause you and me,” Mac continues, “We can both get hurt real bad and come back from it. Like, I’ll be real with you now that I know you’re the real deal too. The other reason why I stole that car was because I crashed my friend’s car into a ditch and a fence pole went through my guts or whatever, but because Dennis locked me in a cupboard - he didn’t think it worked but it totally did because I was able to live from getting impaled,” Mac explains, “And you, I watched you about to get incinerated because you were shot? Yeah, looked like you’d been shot, and you’re fine now! Plus, we can totally be out in the daylight without being set on fire by the sun like Dennis. So yeah, it makes way more sense to put Dennis in jail for being beneath us than putting me in jail for being a more super badass vampire than him.”

The guy blinks once more, then erupts into a burst of laughter. Nervously, Mac starts to laugh too. The back end of the car trembles with Dennis’ kicks, which only makes Mac’s laugh come more naturally because Dennis doesn’t know how sneaky Mac is being in shirking his sentence off to his best friend.

Then, curiously, Mac feels as if he has become very still. His laughter is sucked right out of him. His body feeling as if he has been strapped to the seat in invisible ropes, however they seem to be made of blades rather than rope. Any struggle causes a cutting pain, which only makes him struggle more. He chokes and wheezes and sweat trickles down his neck and beneath his shirt and the sun shines horrible bright through the windscreen.

For a long, long time, Mac cannot see. All he can hear is this deep belly rumbling, a mixture between a wolf snarling over fresh prey and a hyena cackling. He grits his teeth and breathes through them. Eventually the light dims and the invisible knives that were slithered around him become blunt and malleable, and slowly he finds he has control over his body again.

He dares not speak, for a few minutes at least. More kicking comes from the trunk.

“You are… a unique individual, son. Remind me what your name is.”

Mac crosses his thick arms trying to fight against the truth that comes out. “Ronald Mcdonald.”

“Of course it is.”

  
<>

 

“Wake up! WAKE UP!!!”

Dee kicks the back of The Waitress’ seat, prompting the woman to snap awake. Her hands which had fallen to her lap snap back to the steering wheel and she pulls the car back onto the road before they drive into the side railing.

“YOU DUMB BITCH!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

“Dee, I’m-”

“I’m doing you a favour here keeping this stuff from him and you’re in front trying to crash my new car?!”

“Dee,” The Waitress pleads as she drives the car at a crawl. Cars honk their horns as they pass, making The Waitress visibly jolt each time. “You have to take over. I can’t drive eight hours in one day, it’s too far!”

“It was meant to be you driving today and me driving tomorrow, we agreed!” Dee complains while The Waitress pulls the car over.

For a moment they all sit in the car, the engine still running. Wes snores. The Waitress lowers her forehead on the steering wheel. Dee scratches her cheek and she looks down at her shaking hand and sees chunks of flaky skin wedged beneath her nails. She scratches her jeans and inspects her fingernails again, some of the gunk having fallen loose, but most of it still there.

Dee gets out of the car. She leaves the bag of ammo in the backseat, not bothered by the potential that Wes could get his hands on it even though she’s fairly sure that Wes is fake-sleeping. She suspects Wes doesn’t need the ammo as much as The Waitress had tried to make her believe. After all, there’s gotta be more than one way to kill a vampire. The Waitress is only attached to the bag because she thinks it’s her way ‘in’ on this thing. Dee sees right through her. She doesn’t want to be left alone in Philly. Which is understandable, but also really sad in her opinion. How is The Waitress over 40 and still so utterly alone?

“Are you gonna get out or do I have to drag you?” Dee asks, knocking on the driver’s side door.

The Waitress is leaning over the wheel. She straightens her back, wipes her face, then pushes open the door which shoves Dee to one side. Dee grumbles, and waits for The Waitress to lug her old bones out before she takes over. She buckles into a grossly warm seat and takes her new car onto the highway. In the back seat, The Waitress takes the bag onto her lap and starts to cry. It makes Dee feel queasy. She puts on the radio to drown out The Waitress. She doesn’t have the capacity to feel sorry for The Waitress considering the week she’s had.

The worst of it had all started with a phone call from Mandy. After talking to Mac briefly when he finally found out that she’d withdrawn money from his bank account, she’d expected a call from Mandy to do with Mac asking for his money back, but it was a few days later that she’d gotten a call from the woman, and it was worse than Mac making her beg her for money. It was that instead of going up to Bemidji to collect the last of Dennis’ stuff, he hadn’t actually taken anything and instead left a stolen car in Mandy’s driveway. And no, it wasn’t Dee’s stolen car, it was some random one that the cops had to take in to do with an incident in the next town over, where, surprise surprise, they’d found Dee’s car crashed into a ditch.

She’s absolutely going to kill Mac for destroying yet another one of her cars. She wouldn’t have known for sure if it wasn’t for the call from Mandy, and it had validated Dee’s initial decision to take Mac’s money as a deposit in case anything happened to her car, not that she was seeking validation anyway. She’s put up with so much from the gang. Years of being teased, ridiculed, neglected, _lied_ to. Clearing out Mac’s account and emptying the safe barely covers the amount of remuneration that’s due to her.

Which leads her to her current state; sitting in her stinking fresh car on the way to Minnesota with a bitch she hates in the back and her hot cousin in the passenger seat. They think Dee’s here to help them. They’re wrong. They’re only helping her to find the dude who got her brother killed, and before she kills him, she’s going to make Malvo tell her where Dennis is. And then she’s going to make Dennis wish he was never alive to die twice.

Wes taps her roughly on the shoulder. Dee turns to look at him. He’s staring at her wide eyed.

“He’s probably asking why you haven’t started driving yet,” The Waitress croaks from the back seat.

Dee clears her throat and kicks the car into gear, and as she finds a car to match her speed to, she looks down and wonders how long the single piece of paper had been sitting in her lap for. She leaves one hand on the wheel and glances at the paper briefly, sees the title, then tosses it behind her.

“Read that out,” Dee tells The Waitress.

The Waitress grumbles, “I told you, I’m not going to help you flirt with my own cousin-” She stops when she sees the title as well, then begins to read it aloud:

 

**_Vs_ **

 

  * __= vampires__


  * _Evil_


  * _Kill them_


  * _How: silver, sharpened wood, sunlight._



 

 

**_UVs_ **

 

  * __= Ultra Vampires__


  * _Worse_


  * _Kill them_


  * _How: silver, sharpened wood, sunlight_


  * _Then: scatter remains._



 

 

_Happy?_

 

“Happy? No I’m not happy!” The Waitress says after she has finished reading.

Dee watches as The Waitress leans forward and begins a very aggressive sign language conversation which culminates in Wes handing over his notebook and pencil.

“What are you doing?” Dee asks, paying less and less attention to the road.

“I have so many more questions, don’t you?”

 

<>

 

He was not permitted a lick of the blood that he used to reanimate his master. Pressurised shower while his stomach howled. Dressed into a dead man’s burial clothes. Into the trunk he went.

He’s trapped, uncomfortable, and starving to the point that the blood coursing through his own veins is starting to smell appetizing. He bites his shoulder, sinks his fangs into his flesh and tastes rotting meat. He spits and his shoulder weeps and he remains squashed in the trunk of yet another stolen car. Confined with his thoughts and his hunger and the sounds of every word that’s being exchanged in the front of the car. Every backstabbing word Mac throws around, every annoying little plea he makes to attest his innocence, and the long tirade he goes on about his Dad which his master first finds amusing until Mac _won’t shut up_.

Dennis shouldn’t be able to see anything in the darkness but in that moment, in the back of his mind, in front of him, all around him, a demon rises from Hell and embodies the shape of his master in the driver’s seat. A figure once rag and bone, now bulging and growing beyond natural means. Fires flare out along an ancient skeleton and muscles elongate and skin stretches and  monstrous nails and fangs protrude in place of every tooth. A long tongue rolls out, slick and panting. A heat that roars out of his mouth, from elsewhere, a gush of air exhumed from the pits of Hell.

The bulbous body deflates like the ruffled feathers of a proud vulture, and the flurry of rage takes a surprising turn. His master begins to laugh. Chillingly. A sound that will haunt Dennis as eternally as the source who prompted it.

 

<>

 

Dee doesn’t make it further than Pittsburgh. Her gas running on empty and the tank well above half. She rolls into the first vacant motel she sees, deciding to take the time to get a good amount of sleep before hitting the road again. She books a double for her and Wes and a single for The Waitress, but while she’s helping the dozing woman to the bed, Wes takes the double. He doesn’t hear her knocking. She goes down to the lobby and books another room for herself, then smokes a handful of cigarettes on the balcony, watching planes fly over the distant skyline.

She’s had virtually no sleep over the last few days. Sleeping during the day shouldn’t be a problem, yet her hungover, drug-craving mind makes a sighting of a back of a head that looks like Dennis. A teenager darting across the carpark with thick locks like when Dennis was college aged. They’d go on vacation to the Jersey Shore, to much more glamorous accomodation than a $52 a night, and hang off the railings flirting with the next hot thing. The boy stops by a vending machine and stands there in the sun, sculling a bottle of coke, and when the bottle no longer hides his face, she sees the melted version of Dennis’ body. Red-stained flesh reformed over a pale white skeleton. A woman screaming beside her, the scent of her college roommate’ hair on fire.

Dee shoves the cigarettes into her pocket and slams into her motel room. She slides down the closed door and drops onto the carpet and holds her head in her hands. Tears bubble beneath her skin but she won’t let them shed and they won’t let her exhausted body rest. She claws at her knees. Craves a drug which has withered her like crisp autumn leaves that sprout in spring, a seasonal change against the grain of nature. She’s not meant to be this way, or she’s always been this way. Blamed the substances when she’s hot, when everything else is too cold, too much to bear.

The crack will do her good. Dull her, help her to dull the fires she keeps lighting around her.

That’s all she wants, aside from revenge. Crack is the catalyst and revenge is the climax. Afterwards she knows there’ll be no solace. She’s never experienced what it’s like to be at peace in her entire life. It’s not about finding peace. It’s about putting out the fire that’s turning the floor beneath her to ashes. Blackening the soles of her feet and coating her soul in nothing anyone wants to pluck out of rubble. It’s about putting out at least one fire to lessen the extent of the next fire season. It’s about doing something to make the struggle seem defeatable.

_“No one needs you.”_

“Go away!”

She thought she was needed by the most self-obsessed man on the plan-

 _“I didn’t need you_ once _the entire year,”_ He says, pleased with himself.

Dennis would mock her and trick her along with the rest of the gang, but there were always times when he would turn to her, only her, to validate him. To tell him that he looked good or that he was good or that he didn’t deserve ill treatment and when she withheld that from him, he would tell her that he couldn’t go on without her.

_“How can you be so stupid?”_

“Shut up!”

They’d all done donkey-brained shit in their lifetimes but they’d always gotten away in tact. How could Dennis get himself killed? He’d been so far away. So distant from Philly, from the gang, from her. His sister. She doesn’t want to accept that he didn’t need her. Everyone needs her. If it wasn’t for her, the bar wouldn’t function. If it wasn’t for her, Mac would have been unknowingly working without pay. If it wasn’t for her, Charlie’s baby could have been left in the hands of a hobo. If it wasn’t for her, Wes and The Waitress wouldn’t be able to leave Philly. If it wasn’t for her…

 _“You think that’s them needing you?”_ He laughs, she laughs. _“You imposed yourself on these people. No one willingly wants you around.”_

The Waitress didn’t want her to come. Wes isn’t responding to her flirtatious jokes. Her parents didn’t want her. The gang didn’t want her. Ditched her whenever they could. Dumped by men and women and rendered meritless. Useless except for the five figures in her bank account.

Despite everything, there was goodness with Artemis. And because of everything, that goodness didn’t last.

Dee slides out her phone and thinks about sending Artemis a text. She stares at the screen. The white glow permeates the hallucination of her brother and makes him fade away, for now. Her thumb presses three letters.

‘WYD’.

She presses send. And waits. The glow cuts to black and her twin climbs out of the caverns carved inside her. His bloody hands pry apart her ribs but they barely keep hold when the screen lights up again. An incoming call.

She sits up and swipes the answer key, desperate for the light that will burn him away.

“Dee! Yes! See Frank? I told you that she would have nothing better to do! -- Yeah, I’m gonna ask, just get away from me dude, you’re doing that thing with your teeth again. - Why aren’t you guys answering your phones? I’ve been calling Mac off the hook!”

Dee taps the speaker button, making Charlie’s voice sound strangely echoed. She wants to ask him to come back. She wants to ask him if he still wants her, if he still thinks about the time they screwed on her couch, if he cares about her at all.

_“I think you already know the answer to that.”_

“You stupid asshole,” she tells both men.

“ _Me_ stupid asshole?!” Charlie says, sounding aghast, “You stupid asshole! You stole Mac’s money!!”

“No, no!” Dee says through grit teeth, “He signed it over to me when he agreed to join accounts, he should have read the fine print. It’s _always_ been my money.  I can’t steal my own money, can I? No, it’s mine and I’m going to spend it how I want! Let’s move passed it. Move passed it. The Waitress thinks you kidnapped her baby.”

“Wha-” Charlie says, caught off guard. “I didn’t! She was meant to-”

“You were meant to meet at the bar for changeover, not get on a cruise.”

“No! No! _She_ was meant to call me like she does every day! She was meant to stop me!”

“And because she didn’t, you assumed it was okay?”

“Whatever! I’m - Jesus, Frank! I told you to get away from me!” It sounds like Charlie makes an attempt at getting away from her father. He covers his hand over the phone when he whispers, “Dee, he’s been acting really weird. All of a sudden he doesn’t have an appetite for anything, not even cheese!”

“What do you want? I’m busy,” She snaps.

_“Oh, so you want to be needed but only when it suits you?”_

“Son of a bitch-”

Charlie’s voice cuts off. The screen goes dark.

 

**< > **

 

The Waitress’ stomach rumbles so violently that it wakes her up.

It’s night time. Her cousin must be furious. Before they had set off that morning, he’d written that it was dangerous to travel at night, and yet the capable drivers couldn’t stay awake long enough to get them farther than 300 miles from Philadelphia.

She switches on the grainy television and channel surfs until she can’t keep her nose away from the smell of hot food wafting in from outside. She quickly changes clothes then leaves her room in search for something to quiet her stomach. A bubble of laughter pulls her eyes beyond the balcony where there’s a couple down by the pool sharing a cigarette and a glass of champagne. Their smiles sparkle under the bright lamp posts. She wants to think she’s too old to feel jealous.

The Waitress jumps down the stairs two at a time, chasing the scent of baked pasta and sausages and roasted coffee. On the ground floor, the diner glows a warm red, dipping the deep end of the pool in a silky pink. As she walks toward the glass door, she spots her cousin sitting at a booth by the window scoffing down a massive plate of food. Wes happens to look out the window at that moment, and the two make eye contact.

Her eyes wander to his food, blurry through the window, and his stare back, wide eyed. He drops his cutlery and fetches his notebook, but by the time he has finished writing all of six letters, The Waitress has walked inside. She walks toward him. He holds the paper against the window and looks around, then jumps when he sees her beside him. It’s maybe the first display of his vulnerability she’s seen.

He twists his wrist and shows her the paper.

_‘Get Dee.’_

All The Waitress wants to do is demolish a plate of food, but they’re going to need Dee to cover the bill. She makes her order before leaving, hoping that it will be ready when she’s brought Dee down if she times it just right. She finds out which room Dee is in from reception. Struggles with getting the door open until Dee rolls out of the way. It takes her some convincing, and a cigarette, before she can drag Dee down to the diner.

Dee grumbles like a child the whole way. Which annoys her, and then she’s annoyed that she’s annoyed. Annoyed that she doesn’t feel like a mother, yet has to be one to grown adults. Annoyed that the whole world told her that the sense of motherhood would come naturally, that her feelings of uncertainty and despair would lift once she gave birth. Annoyed that it got _worse_. That because of her baby, she’ll be tied to these people for as long as she lives. Or as long as they live…

Dee plonks down in the booth opposite Wes. The Waitress slides in next to her and pulls a plate of food toward her. It’s warm rather than hot, but she digs in regardless. Dee wraps her hands around a cup of black coffee and stares at the meal The Waitress had ordered for her.

Wes holds up his notebook. _‘Eat’._

Dee shakes her head. She pushes her plate away, slouching in her seat, and seems to zone out by staring out the window. With the food left untouched, The Waitress eagerly slides the baked lasagna onto her own plate. Her mother would have a field day if she could see how much she’s eating. In her defense, she’s technically still eating for two.

Wes returns to furiously writing something with so much pressure that he pokes his pencil through the paper multiple times. The sight of the man hunched over with a permanent frown on his face makes The Waitress wonder why Dee even wants to attract his attention. Sure, he’s tall, has curly hair, and his face isn’t half bad when he’s not frowning or staring at them bug-eyed. Dee doesn’t make it easy for him though. Seeing her gag when she’s nervous can’t be any easier than having to hear it. Wes repeatedly rebuffs her advances, and yet she seems to be too desperate to accept that he’s not interested.

The Waitress shuns herself, reminding herself that she shouldn’t be so judgemental. Her very presence exemplifies how desperate she is - to be reunited with her baby, to be safe, to ensure her cousin follows through with what he promised. She’s trying everything she can, and isn’t that what Dee’s doing? Just trying to get through the day with some goal to move towards. Besides, she too shares the quality of liking men who aren’t interested in her back. Sex must be on the table, and something tells her that Wes’ friend, Grady Numbers, was more than just a friend to her cousin.

She almost chokes on her food when Wes startles her by slamming a section of ripped papers onto the table. She grabs some napkins and wipes her hands as she glances at the title of the pencil punctured pages. Same title as before, but by the looks of the dents in the paper, with more information inside. She starts turning through the pages, [reading the content over](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14773118).

Wes taps the table and shows her a written message.

_‘That’s everything you asked for. Questions answered, promise to kill Charlie, now you follow - nothing more to explain. Focus. You’re my ears now.’_

_‘I’m your ears, am I?’_ The Waitress signs, having placed the papers on the table again.

“Wait a sec - did that say you were going to kill Charlie?” Dee asks, pointing at Wes’ notebook.

The Waitress gapes, an immense amount of dread pooling inside her.

“Great, yeah, have him kill the father of your child! That’ll give your kid a great start in life,” Dee says dryly.

Her palms sweat. “Dee, I-”

“That’s what you want to do right? You want to kill Charlie to give your kid a better life. Wish my mother loved me enough to do that to Frank. Imagine how much better I would have turned out if someone had sniped that son of a bitch!”

It sounds absolutely absurd when said out loud. Kill Charlie. She actually thought it was a good idea to kill Charlie Kelly.

“Is this who we are now? We find out that vampires exist and we instantly want blood?!”

“You were the one talking about killing your dead brother!”

Dee snarls. She grips the edge of the table and struggles to get out, pushing The Waitress off the seat in the process. The Waitress’ ass hits the floor, a pang of pain shoots up her spine from her tailbone. The diner goes eerily quiet. Dee stands over her with a raised fist, but Wes holds her back. Dee tries to wrestle out of Wes’ hold. A waiter tentatively approaches and drops a bill on the table.

“Get off me!” Dee shouts, finally shrugging into freedom. She grumbles and slaps some cash on the table, then walks out.

The Waitress snatches the papers Wes had written out, then goes after Dee, signing to Wes, _‘Come with me.’_

Dee marches toward the pool and grips the spokes in the fence. Wes stands off to the side, his arms folded, watching them. The red neon light hums across her sweat stained shirt. The couple from earlier have deserted their poolside seats, but left the empty champagne bottle and three full cigarettes lay on the white plastic stool.

Dee folds her arms over the fence and rests her forehead on her arms. “What are we doing here?”

The Waitress can barely hear her. She steps closer, hovers beside Dee.

“What am I doing here?”

“You’re … I don’t know, I guess we’re both getting revenge?”

“Revenge,” Dee laughs tersely.

She kicks her foot which makes the whole fence rattle. The Waitress instinctively goes to pat Dee’s back, Dee lets her. It reminds her of a time in high school when she found Dee crying in the bathroom. Dee got bullied a lot back then, same as The Waitress, but it only got worse when Dee got the back brace. So many years ago, Dee had flinched when The Waitress had touched her back to console her, but the way she leaned into it… it was like no one had ever touched her there since she was born.

Unexpectedly, Dee turns around and throws her arms around The Waitress. She responds by holding her stiffly.

“I just want Dennis back,” Dee sobs.

“...Me too.”

Dee wrenches a laugh through her tears. “No you don’t. You thought he was an asshole.”

“He _was_ an asshole,” The Waitress agrees, then adds, “I think I still love him though.”

“You can’t - I’m not gonna...” Dee stops herself, deflating her own rage quite quickly. She pulls back from The Waitress and wipes her face with her hands. “Okay, no, rewind. The Charlie thing - I’m starting to understand why your cousin has come into the picture. Did you know he was a vampire hunter, or whatever?”

She casts her eyes to the ground. “No, I had no idea about any of it. I didn’t know he was my cousin until a few days ago. Or I forgot, or something. I might have known he was a hitman… I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

Dee grips the pool fence again. “Right. So he shows up, he needs help with… whatever happened in that church. You agree but on one condition - that he’s going to kill Charlie for you? I get it - he’s an asshole too, but you can’t kill him! He loves the shit out of your kid.”

“He’s being impossible…” The Waitress blinks at the faint stars above her, finding it hard to make eye contact with Dee when talking about killing or not killing her friend.

“Getting Wes to take Charlie out for you isn’t going to do you any favours.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“No… No, it’s different,” Dee explains. “I have a legitimate reason to want revenge. Your reason to get blood on _his_ hands is pure escapism.”

The Waitress meets Dee’s eyes. “Charlie stalked me for 20 years! Even with a restraining order he wouldn’t keep his distance! What other option do I have to keep my baby safe?”

“Live with it. You made the choice to have his baby.”

The Waitress crosses her arms. “I thought you were a feminist, Dee.”

“Feminism means equality, not the woman’s always right. Hey - is he saying that he wants us to go?”

The Waitress looks over her shoulder at Wes, who is, as Dee had said, signing that he wants to hit the road.

“Yeah.”

“I’m getting better at this,” Dee says, sounding more and more like her old self, and less like the crying mess The Waitress had briefly witnessed. “And you know what? It doesn’t matter that you don’t have a good reason to be here now that I can communicate with him with writing. Helping to hunt down a vampire is probably the only cool thing you’ve ever done in your life, so let’s just see if your cousin isn’t talking shit. I mean, what else have we got to do?”

They move toward the stairs. The Waitress isn’t sure that she’s entirely convinced out of doing something about Charlie until Dee stops her on the bottom step and warns her with absolute certainty, “If you get Wes to kill Charlie, don’t think I won’t slit your throat, bitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you didn't catch the link, you can go [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14773118) for the more details about vampire lore in this fic. Technically only The Waitress read it, Dee did not. I didn't want to clog up this already long chapter with the info, so put it as a separate thing, which is totally optional to read.


	23. Patient like the forest, stood through thousands fallen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this chapter is some character building for key antagonists/supporting characters - [Varga](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/bigfatcat19/68916090/269730/269730_original.jpg), and his mother [Ruby Goldfarb](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DCX1QviWAAER3fc.jpg). In Fargo canon, Ruby is simply an accomplice sent by Narwhal to acquire Emmett Stussy's business. In this fic, she plays a more pivotal role...)

On a delightfully quiet evening in his modern day palace, V.M. Varga props a plump pillow behind his back as he sits up in his Russian steel four poster bed. He twiddles his fingers in glee before reaching for the tray of steaming hot stew which was prepared by the most sought after chefs he procured from the heart of Hong Kong, and, upon levering the tray towards his lap, by certainly his own doing (though he’ll never admit to it), the bowl slides off and spills the stew all over his lap. Flustered that the stew is quickly seeping into the delicate fibres of his bedding, he instinctively shouts out Yuri’s name.

The call extends into the night and touches no one, so it plummets to Hell where demons are too busy to pay mind. You see, Yuri had been by his side for 300 years more than Meemo. Naturally, Yuri would be the first to call. Oh, how he wishes he had the power to make Yuri return to him. It is wishful thinking to entertain the thought that Yuri is simply bewitched rather than dead.

Yuri would know exactly what to do with his bedding which is quickly becoming ruined. He was quick to salvage it once, he would be quick to do so once more. Yes, it’s the same, the very same bedding that Tchaikovsky slept in on the night of the 1882 world premiere of the  _ 1812 Overture _ . Bedding that the great composer slept in, within the steel walls of the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour where, on the same evening, Varga and Yuri had first met Joseph Stalin at the very young age of 4. 

A very humble beginning it was. Oh yes, on that night, greetings were made to life, and to death; to the grandeur of what was to come! Varga can still remember the sight of Yuri devouring a party of seven with the backdrop of Tchaikovsky’s symphonies resounding off the Cathedral walls. That same house of Christ, Stalin would later demolish in order to pave way for a monument to Lenin - the Palace of the Soviets, and on which rubble, Stalin had premiered the second greatest genocide in Varga’s long lifetime, and the first in Yuri’s. 

Investors and collectors and historians had of course procured items from the Cathedral before Stalin made the order of demolition. Yuri, by his own design, had salvaged Tchaikovsky’s bedding for his master as a divine gift, and during the bloodshed of the century, Yuri had imbued the blood flakes of the 20 million people Stalin had massacred into the Russian silk. Oh, what a treasure indeed. An item so beloved that Varga had it stored for half a century, tucked away with his collection of rare artefacts he has amassed since the 13th century. 

In reality, he has far more valuable and priceless goods than Tchaikovsky’s bedding, however, this particular item has sentimental value to him, strengthened by the absence of the giver. In honour of Yuri’s dutiful though  _ dimwitted  _ demise, and in honour of the completion of Varga’s standing tower - his greatest creation; Stussy Supermall (not quite as grand in vision as the planned Palace of the Soviets, but magnificently  _ real _ ), and with a penthouse palace for himself presiding over his peasants as essential to him as steel is to Russia - he had extracted Tchaikovsky's bedding from storage so that he may blanket himself in memoriam.

However, here he lies in the bedding, where hot stew is burning through the fabric and scalding his thighs, and not a hand to lend to him because Meemo insists on the technology of machines.

How he is tired of that rhetoric.

In the twenty-first century, it is no longer the time to fret over robots taking over the working capacity of humans. It’s that rising sea levels will surely cause much greater devastation on the human race, and, for which reason, Varga has established himself in a nation ripe for political exploitation. Nothing gets done faster than threatening the lives of the wealthy. Of course he had to choose Minnesota, of all great American cities, because of the locality of the Gerdhart’s funds. Luckily the city is relatively central, and is at a satisfactory elevation above sea level. 

Perhaps he is so confident in his plan that he does not feel the need to barricade himself behind fortified walls. Or perhaps he is simply too old fashioned that he does not particularly care for modern day preventative measures, as wondrous as they become. They simply do not matter in the grand scheme of things. So it’s largely understated to say that he’s irritated by Meemo’s insistence upon communicating through gadgets rather than relying on natural means. Of course, since Yuri’s ‘departure’, the boy has been sensitive, and he’s trying to be as respectful as a good master can be toward his minion, so as to put him at ease. Well, at least with this spill, he can make a point should Meemo arrive too late.

Varga reaches for his smart phone from his bedside table - another piece of exquisite design with an anecdote for another time - careful in doing so in order to not upset the doused sheets and spread the stew further, but the device slips out of hand and bounces along the carpet beneath his bed. 

“Siri! SIRI!” Varga bellows until the gadget chimes in recognition. “Call Meemo!”

“Sorry, I can’t understand you. Did you want to write a memo?”

“CALL. MEEMO.”

The smart phone makes a chime, and then says, “Sorry, what was that?”

Varga promptly abandons his attempt to respect Meemo’s wishes and closes his eyes - not because it is required for him to summon his kind, but merely out of habit, and he sorts through the darkness lit by all the beating hearts in his mall complex until he finds Meemo not in his nearby quarters where he ought to be, but on another level entirely. He hones in and procures Meemo, sitting back when he feels Meemo heeding his command.

Speedily he comes, good chap.

Varga plucks a shank of lamb and plops it in his mouth, savouring the rich, juicy meat, and carries it around his tongue  before swallowing it, much to the chagrin of his stomach. 

Suddenly, Meemo flies through Varga’s bedroom door and beckons to his master’s presence.

“Oh, take those headphones out, boy,” Varga says, swishing a hand in the air dismissively.

Meemo stands nervously, but submits to Varga’s will and removes his earplugs, rounds them into loops and pockets them.

“Now, Meemo, come here,” Varga says, gesturing to the side of his bed. “I want you to pay attention to what’s happened. Do you see it?”

“Tchaikovsky’s bedding,” Meemo says with a curiously hollow voice.

How Varga hates when he can tell so easily that Meemo does not wish to be present. 

“Mm, indeed. Now, focus here,” Varga says with a hint of a command, forcing Meemo’s eyes to train on a particularly dark patch of hot stew. “Perhaps the damage wouldn’t have gotten to this extent if I could have summoned you without this silly smartphone business.”

Meemo looks to actually consider Varga’s point of view, but before he can push the case any further, a woman saunters into his private room. She has on a large bear fur coat draped around her shoulders which is long enough to drag about her black heels that pierce into the carpet with each step. Her heartbeat is shielded from him, hence why Varga was unable to prepare himself for the untimely entrance of his own mother. 

“Ah, wonderful, you’ve lead me to my son,” she says, her voice devoid of emotion as she follows Meemo’s path and stands beside the boy.  “Darling, you’ve had a spill…”

“ _ Mummy _ ?!” Varga gasps, retreating deep into his bedding and rather wanting for his mother not to approach him, but since she seduced that vile animal, the Wandering Jew, and, by grand design, protected herself against Varga’s will, he has no control over her whims nor her abhorrent motherly nature.

“Have you hurt yourself, darling? There’s steaming hot stew all over your lap...” She says with candied enthusiasm.

She gazes down at him, and he finds he cannot make eye contact with her, as is often the case in her presence because direct eye contact resurfaces all the ways in which they have fought and wronged each other over the near millenium they have been immortal together on God’s Earth. 

Her eyes draw down over his body bedded by the sheets and she plucks at the top quilt, drawing a corner to her nostrils and taking a deep whiff.

“Sweetie,  _ where _ did you acquire such linen?” She asks, turning her nose to the quilt like a dog on a trail. “I smell ancient blood, how rare…”

Varga sits up to yank the linen out of his mother’s hands and tosses the whole ruined thing at Meemo, who stumbles backward at the fright of having to hold all of the weight so suddenly. 

“ _ Take it into the tub and dab it clean _ !” He orders Meemo. 

Meemo slips into the nearby ensuite to get to work. His leather boots make a clak-clak on the crimson marble tiles of Varga’s ensuite. Varga remains seated in bed, a strong scent of lamb about him, and his pyjama bottoms are stained with the stew. His mother looks at him pitifully, then perches on the end of the bed.

“What are you doing here Mummy?” Varga says, crossing his arms. “I thought you were in England.”

Yuri  _ had _ warned him not to be so confident in his win… He thought he had barred his mother from leaving England for at least half a century thanks to his scheme in London. A scheme which went awry but was successful in such a way that his actions should have kept his mother from pestering him and his business long enough for him to instigate his master plans on another continent. 

“Oh, I was, darling, but Paul wanted me over in North America. The ever kind Gerdharts supported my passage. They are true family people, like you and I.”

Varga chews his moustache, his eyes trained on his yellow toenails half cloaked by the fur on his mother’s coat. 

“I’ve come to take care of you,” She says, “As per Paul’s request, but I’d have come regardless.”

Varga’s nostrils flare. “Mummy, I appreciate your care but I don’t need your help for anything.”

“Darling,” His mother says with a forced smile on her face, “Your finances are out of control. Do you know how I can tell? It’s not mother’s intuition, I can say. My talented son, I can see you are dreaming big, but your fellows’ workmanship on the fine details of this establishment is lack lustre and the decorum, stale. You’ve missed the mark, as they say, and I’m afraid you’ll soon topple this tower you’ve built for yourself because, as I discussed with your new pet here,” she gestures to Meemo working away in the ensuite, “You have not taken to the safety of yourself nor to your fellow vampires, which is, may I say, rather odd.”

Varga sighs shortly, then calls out loud enough that Meemo should hear from the bathroom, “Meemo?  _ Come here _ !” He waits for Meemo to scuffle to attention, then address him. “Don’t tell me this is about the reinforced windows.” Meemo shares a look with his mother, and before the boy makes a verbal confirmation, Varga interrupts him and says, “I have told you time and-”

“Darling,” his mother interrupts him, a palm faced toward him, “Have the Americans forfeited your manners so swiftly?”

“Sorry Mummy,” he says meekly.

His mother folds one leg over her knee. “You should listen to the thoughts and ideas of your fellows. We are not mindless creatures and I say so from experience… I may be more fortunate in that I am not a slave to my master...” She says. She reaches out for Meemo’s hand, places it in her palm and pets it. Varga can feel his mother’s gaze on himself when she talks. “...You must know that your kin are not merely sheep. Listen to what he has to say and you’ll yield a richer harvest...”

Instead of acknowledging his mother’s eye contact, he looks at Meemo who has an expression of contentment for the first time in months. Well, it must be because his mother is grooming him, pandering to a sore spot that she has too quickly identified. That’s always been his mother’s strength. She’s a sleuth at seeing people, good at reading the room and finding the one block to remove that will make a whole kingdom crumble. But, alas, she has always trusted too well. Placed faith in bonds that were no less capable of betrayal whether they were familial or friendly or romantic. Her own son… why, she had planned for years, and he had played along as Mummy’s boy until the very end when he usurped her at the last second. Betrayed her before she could boil Genghis Khan’s next in command herself, and as such, he became immortal instead of her. 

Since then, he has been orchestrating scheme after scheme to keep her away from him, but time and time again she has found her way back to him. An obsession is the way for damaged people to damage themselves more. Dear oh dear, he thought he had her in London. He had successfully kept her away from his new turn, Meemo, and kept her from Yuri, and kept her from the business he was trying to establish - which blew up, as operations tend to do in cities with too many vampires thinking that the world is not theirs to control. He had to flee, of course, but before doing so, he set up a trap for his mother, which had succeeded, he thought. 

Yes, yes, Yuri had warned him… well, his ‘disappearance’ must be no coincidence with his mother’s  _ re _ appearance. He imagines that this is all that bastard’s doing - Paul Murrane. The bane of his existence. Worse so than his own mother because it was Murrane who turned her when Varga naively thought he was the only being who could refuse her. That was his second betrayal.

Proceeding the fall of Genghis Khan, she was forced to roam the world and seek out Paul Murrane, a being who she would make a legend - The Wandering Jew. A character whose existence before the 13th century was elusive and unknown, but ever present. Who found who first? And was Murrane the First? Was he God or the Devil? Or did he, and does he, simply  _ exist _ . Humbly so, until, proceeding the 1200s, his mother made it the goal of her human life to spread the notoriety of The Wandering Jew. Consequently, Murrane gave her the gift of immortality where she failed to capture it from Murrane herself because of  _ love _ . Love made her lose a great power, and made her gain a subpower. And she’s hated her son for it ever since. 

“Really, darling, if you want this to become a farm or a fortress or whatever it is you have envisioned…  you need this fellow and-“

“I know I need him, Mummy, that’s why he’s-“

“Well stop being  _ outrageous _ ,” Ruby says with an air of drama despite her desultory tone, “You’ve let Yuri get killed-“

“ _ What _ ,” Meemo gasps.

“Yes, darling, in a bowling alley...” Ruby says, still petting Meemo’s hand, “Didn’t my son tell you... No, I imagine he didn’t... Well, it was quite gruesome the way Paul delivered the message... And, I suppose  _ Yuri  _ didn’t tell  _ you _ , my son... that I was the caretaker of business in St Cloud before you let Stussy get killed... He was a hunter, didn’t you know… a deaf fellow. He shot the man - Emmitt was it? In his family home, right under the noses of your watchers.”

“You said - you said Yuri-” Meemo stammers. 

Ruby looks at him sympathetically and pats his hand, but her voice is aimed at her son. “I’m afraid to be so frank, my dear, but you are  _ messy.. _ . You fade in and out of existence in brilliant bursts of crossfires and booms of wealth and you exit with shame and bankruptcy. You are silenced by your curious disappearances as if you were never there… I wonder if you are trying to ever so lamely copy Paul…”

“I’m not!” He protests. 

She glares at him, prickled by his interruption. “You are fooling no one in our spheres and you are very much disquieting the peace… Your work here will be cut short, as it was in London, if you don't adhere to my advice.... And... mark my words... I know exactly what you’re trying to do here…” She pauses, then punctuates each word as if a full stop follows them, “I see you.”

“I’m not going public if that’s what you’re worried about, Mummy,” Varga lies, wishing her to be gone and trying to appease her as quickly as possible.

“It would be very wise not to, my child… The Olds… Paul, as well, would highly disapprove... but your fellow here tells me that you are… that you even have some Olds on your side? How can that be?”

“Meemo!” Varga snarls.

“She told me that she was your Mom!” Meemo says in protest, his eyes wild and red. 

“And so you believe anything an old woman says?” Varga snaps at Meemo in Cantonese. 

“She smells like you,” Meemo replies in his native tongue. 

“So you told her everything?!” Varga snaps in Cantonese.

His mother laughs. In matched dialect, she says, “Darling, I’m shocked that your new protege hasn’t heard about me… tell me that’s not so, that you’d omit me - rather forget that I ever existed… I’m hurt.” She lets go of Meemo’s hand, and before anyone can reply, she continues in English, “Darling, I’m quite tired of this conversation. Shall I cook you a new roast? Your friend here kindly put me in a suite with a kitchenette... A poky one, dare I say... I’ll expect an upgrade by the end of the week...” She saunters toward the door, then stops. “I hope you have heard me today, my sweet... Your security is truly lacking... It’s a problem.”

“I know it’s a problem!” Varga cries. 

“Darling, no need to get upset...” His mother replies, pretending to be shocked, “I’ll say, I won’t be making you a roast if you’re going to speak to me like that...”

“I don’t want you here! Go away!”

His mother laughs again. “Oh poppet, you have  _ nothing _ together...” She raps her long fingernails against the doorframe. “Do you know how I can tell? Well, I think it has something to with the hot stew on your lap...”

She exits, and Varga turns to Meemo. “Why on  _ Earth  _ did you put her in a room?! Do you know how much of my life I have spent avoiding her?!”

“Might have been as long as you were avoiding telling me about Yuri.”

Varga’s mouth drops agape. He glares at his minion. Nostrils flaring. 

Undeterred, Meemo goes to return to the bathroom to finish his work. He pulls out his headphones on the way, but they fall to the ground when Varga summons Meemo still. 

“You know very well that I am not fond of raising my voice,” Varga says as he pulls himself off the bed to his feet, his anger strained by clenched teeth. “You have forced my hand!” He bellows. The sparse hair on his body raises like a cat, his mouth snarling, his talons curling. “You will not snap or berate ME! YOUR MASTER!  _ Turn around! Face me. Yes. Answer me, are you scared? _ ”

Meemo, the most unruly of his minions, dares to smirk. Rage ignites him, and then dissolves. He has been on this Earth too long for anger to take hold of him. A novice human would call him pathetic. He would call himself in control. The hair on Varga’s body begins to flatten and relaxes, unsettled though, in tufts of irritation. He sits down on his damp bed. 

“After all I’ve done to appease you…”

“Yuri’s dead,” Meemo says in Cantonese.

A command flicks out on his tongue, “ _ You haven’t been quite the same since Yuri disappeared. _ ”

“He disappeared…” 

“He became your close friend, didn’t he? Is my company not sufficient? No? I’ll give you something to do to keep your mind off him.  _ Post guard. Stake the perimeter. _ I don’t want to see you anymore. Go.”

Without a second, capable thought, Meemo promptly exits. Varga is left alone in his bedroom with lukewarm stew in his pyjama bottoms and a ruined artefact in his bathtub, and reluctantly decides to call upon his lesser servants so that he may feel less depressed that he should have to clean up his own mess without them. 


	24. Road Trips (Side B)

“Not so fast, dude!” Mac cries. He thins against the seat as Malvo pushes the car up a hill at a 85mph. “This is why old people shouldn't drive!”

Before the crest of the hill has been surpassed, Malvo swings over to the opposite lane to take over a slow car.

The windscreen paints a picture of dry farmland either side the dusty road, topped by a clear blue sky. Nothing beyond the hill can be seen yet, not even the tips of the tallest buildings in Minneapolis. Mac covers his eyes with his hands, but watches out of the gaps in his fingers. Malvo can hear Mac’s heart racing. He pulls back into his lane just before he reaches the crest of the hill, and milliseconds later, a car passes them in the opposite lane. 

“Seriously man!”

He flies down the steep slope. The city appears on the horizon shrouded by smog. 

“Cheer up, son. If we crash, I’ll have you to help keep me going,” Malvo states. 

“Yeah… I guess I can help…” Mac says, his heart still racing. “I  _ have _ survived car crashes several times before. Car crashes, motorbike crashes…. And uh, boat crashes. I’m a daredevil. I’m pretty skilled at keeping intact. I could’ve been a stuntman if I wasn’t so totally badass. They would’ve had me do the stunts and I’d smash them so good that I would never show any markup like they want for the movies. They would’ve had to use too much makeup to show that I actually do get hurt. Or get a double for me, even though they hired me to be the double…” Mac trails off.

With great difficult, Malvo tries not to laugh, burping out pockets of laughter that sound alien even to himself. The day of his revival is always an interesting one. He has died and come back countless times, but no matter how many times the Devil has pushed him back into this world, his take on the first day is always mixed. His body is very sensitive to touch, his soul raw and brash. He can feel very human on the first day, less in control of his shell and the feelings that well within. But he does not let himself be killed for the flimsy connection with his old human life, rather, the revival itself is the thrill he seeks. 

He relishes the feeling of his soul reconnecting with his body, with his limbs reforming and flesh healing and brain activity sparking with life. His turn had done a fine job. He had expected nothing more, yet in the moment before full recollection and embodiment, he could smell his turn in two places. He sat up and followed the scent with his newly wetted eyes, and had seen two black eyes reflected in the light from the furnace. 

“You brought dessert,” He had commented, “Bring him down.”

It had been his turn’s first display of strength to fight against his command. Don had persisted, and in his curious exchange for his friend’s freedom, he had felt the pain of defiance expelling blood from all orifices. An idiot would call that love, but Malvo, having lived through two centuries, knew that love was not the singular strongest emotion, as romanticised as it is. Rather, humans can be driven by a number of things uglier than love, and more interesting than fear. They can be driven by pride, by selfishness, lust... anything on the sinful compass, and disgust.

Almost a day old, the scent of Malvo’s second grade blood is still extremely strong in Mac’s circulatory and lymphatic systems. The scent itself confirms Mac’s survival of a car crash, or rather, Don -  _ Dennis _ , had clearly figured out how to use his blood to keep the man alive. The old ones would demand him make his turn perish immediately. Malvo has never cared for what they think of him, but has been safe from their reprimand for so long because he never lets his turns live longer than he needs them anyway. Compliance simply because he agreed it was necessary, not because he submitted to rules of old. However, he doubts that they have time for ordering the death of a lowly spy considering the feathers that Varga has stirred across the country. Perhaps nothing unsavoury would arise if he let one live on… It is rather fascinating that this man, this… Ronald McDonald, is the man that Dennis Reynolds fought so hard to keep safe. Mac isn’t the sharpest pencil in the box, rather, his idiocy is quite entertaining. A result Malvo certainly did not expect to encounter when he turned Don Chumph. Rarely has he misjudged, and rarely has he been interested in the trajectory of a person’s life choices, save for Lester, of late. Lester is, of course, his task at hand, but perhaps he’ll willingly indulge himself in the whims of his turns’ toy, if not to pass the time.

Finally, Mac breaks the silence. “So, who’s the guy in the trunk?”

How amusing it is to think that this man had just trash talked his ‘friend’ for fifteen minutes, presuming that Malvo would know who he was talking about, then seemingly denying that it isn’t the same backstabbed friend in the trunk of the vehicle. 

Truly fascinating. 

“I think you know who’s in there,” Malvo says in a honeyed voice.

Mac sighs. “You’re going to have to enlighten me. Has it got anything to do with why I’m here?”

“It’s the vice chancellor of Germany.”

“Oh,  _ ha ha _ ,” Mac mocks, “I know you have someone back there. Is it a runaway that we’re taking back to prison?”

“What makes you think it’s not your friend, Dennis?”

Mac kicks his feet on top of the dashboard, but Malvo swipes them down, prompting him to grumpily cross his arms. “My friend - my  _ best _ friend. I didn’t tell you that before but Dennis is my  _ best friend _ which means that I know him. I  _ know  _ that that was not him back there... in the mortuary. That  _ had _ to be someone else. Dennis would  _ never _ do something like that.”

“You just told me that Dennis ‘straight up murdered an undercover cop’.” Malvo says, smirking at Mac’s face when he took his hands off the wheel to air quote. 

“Yeah! I mean, that was… that was necessary. The cop had a gun! And those college girls - I was exaggerating a little. Pretty sure he just robbed them. Those rich sluts probably had it coming.”

_ ‘Your friend seems to be in denial,’ _ Malvo sends to Dennis, _ ‘Tell me, who  _ have  _ you killed?’ _

_ ‘Oh, I killed those college girls, for sure. I killed an FBI agent to get his ID. I killed the mortician to revive you. I killed a lady down the hall of my apartment… and a dog.’  _

_ ‘You’ve left quite a trail,’ _ Malvo sends to Dennis. Before the last image of Dennis viscerally tearing into a dog fades, he says, “Tell me about the dog that your friend ripped to shreds in front of you.”

Mac pales. “How - How do you know about that?”

“So your short-term memory  _ is  _ intact. How about this morning when your friend ripped the head off a mortician, do you remember that? Do you remember being up in the loft, watching as your friend hung the head over my body and spilled fresh blood into my veins? It was barely-” Malvo looks at the clock, “Three hours ago.” 

Mac pushes himself as far into the corner of the seat as he can. “No, no, stop asking me this ‘do you remember’ bullshit! I’m telling you that that guy wasn’t Dennis!”

“What makes you think so?”

“Dennis wouldn’t do that!”

Malvo wets his lips. He digs around in Dennis’ memories, then asks Mac, “Did the dog remind you of Dennis Jr?”

Mac squints and sounds genuinely confused. “Dennis Jr?”

Malvo looks at the memory that surfaces in Dennis’ mind. “The dog you had in the suburbs.”

“Oh! The puppy Dennis got me! I forgot about that! No way. You should have said Poppins, his death was way more traumatising than Dennis Jr’s.”

Surprised by Mac’s blaise response, Malvo moves on from the dog. “Alright, the man you thought was a cop? He was just a man, who Dennis pulled into… Dee’s car and killed.”

“Yeah,” Mac begins, sweating through his defence. “Dee’s gonna be pretty mad about what we - what  _ Dennis _ did to her car...”

“So you admit that the violence was committed by Dennis’ hands?”

“No, see-” Mac holds up his hand, “-I explained that the cop had a gun! There’s a key part of the story that you’re missing. That was not Dennis in the mortuary. It was like, his double or something. I have one, so he must have one too.”

“Oh?” Malvo says, divulging to entertain the man’s madness. 

Mac sits up and slaps his hands tight around both thighs as he explains. “Right, so I’ll give you the whole context. Dennis needed to go to Bemidji or whatever so we took Dee’s car up yesterday - that’s when we crashed. We took the cop’s car after - I mean, Dennis made me do all of this, I’ll be clear on that. He made me drive to Bemidji, and we met with Mandy and she let me stay the night at hers. And late in the night Dennis came in and we, you know we got ‘intimate’ which was really nice because we hadn’t done anything like that together in over a year. 

“So Dennis was being a little bitch about it as usual and he said he had to go somewhere again and I followed him to the mortuary, right? I saw him go in but I fell behind because Dennis had left in such a rush, he didn’t give me time to put my clothes on properly. So anyway, when I went inside, I couldn’t see where he went. Yeah, I saw a guy down on the bottom level who  _ looked _ like Dennis from a distance but it could have been  _ anyone _ . Dennis probably realised he went into the wrong building and tried to get back to Mandy’s, or, I don’t know… he was pretty out of it. 

“See, it’s that gap between me following Dennis inside the mortuary and seeing some dude bring you back from the dead or whatever. Dennis  _ had _ to have turned back then. That’s the only way any of this makes sense. I’m seeing that you’re not getting it and I think that’s because you don’t know our… situation. We needed money, he got some from those college girls. The cop had a gun pointed at me,  _ and _ a car that worked, so Dennis … whatever, he sorted that out. You’re starting to see the pattern now, right? Let me lay it out plain and simple. Everything that Dennis has done, he has done to protect me. Because we’re in love.”

Malvo blinks. 

“So that can’t be Dennis in the trunk because Dennis wasn’t the one down there doing that horrible thing to that funeral man!”

“What makes you think that I didn’t encounter Dennis in the mortuary afterwards? You didn’t stick around long enough to see what happened after I woke up.”

Mac holds his breath. “You know what? I’ve got places to be. I bet the guys in Hollywood are wondering where I am. And dude, let me tell you, you’re going to be in so much shit when they find out that you’ve taken me against my will. That’s basically kidnapping!”

“I think you need to hear a story...”

Mac screws up his face in disgust. “I don’t want to-”

“I worked as a nurse when I was in the Vietnam War. Wars are bleeding grounds for my type. Carnage, mass destruction. The Devil loves it. I don’t see the appeal. Never did. People died too quickly, you see. There’s no fun in the insecurity of the game if your target isn’t going to survive the war. There was one incident that I’ll share with you. I think that you’ll enjoy it.

“As a nurse, I didn’t have to go onto the battlefield, but in my spare time, I would take strolls around the fences. There was a man cleaning a pole driver with petrol and when he went to turn the machine on, he blew his front right off because the ignition lit the petrol on fire. Not a smart man. Nose to shin covered in flames. I had to shovel mud on him to put the flames out, then I carried him up the hill to the medical shop. We didn’t have running water so cleaning the mud out of his burns was a hard job. I couldn’t do much else for him except pour cold serum on him to keep him damp until the doctor came.

“By the time the doctor arrived, the man had welts all over him. He smelled like the best pork I’d ever smelled. I knew he would have burns for life. When I have told this story to smarter people than you, they ask me, why didn’t I help the man? Why didn’t I give him my blood? Why didn’t I turn him? It’s true, I could have saved him, but I couldn’t have saved what ailed him. With death comes a meaning. Only those whose death would be meaningful, are worthy of descending into Hell.

“I chose not to help that man because he deserved to die. But, as God would have it, the doctor arrived in time to save him. So, what’s worse than death? That man lived out the rest of his life bearing the wounds of his mistakes on his body, waiting to die. He wasn’t a bad man. He wasn’t evil. But he deserved what he got for being so stupid.”

Malvo finishes his story, fully aware that Mac seems to not have paid any attention to him. He knows that Dennis had heard every word by the tremble he makes in the back. 

Mac gives up on rifling through the glove box, then turns to lift the compartment box between the front two seats. 

“Awesome! This car has a USB port! Dude, do you have a power cord? I really need to charge my phone.”

_ “This is the man you fought for?” _ he sends telepathically to his turn in the trunk. 

Dennis’ response is hard to read. Malvo contemplates it, and contemplates Mac’s density and sheer level of cluelessness. It takes Malvo a moment to really pick apart the thought that he had just conjured - that he’s… he’s slightly  _ jealous _ of Dennis’ catch. Mac certainly is the plaything of the century. 

“I’m taking that silence as a no? Ugh, fine! How long ‘til we get to… wherever we’re going? I’m just gonna… I’m gonna close my eyes ‘til we get there.”

 

<>

 

Dennis likes to be constrained but he doesn’t like to be constrained against his own will. He never wants to be trapped in the trunk of a car ever again, worse this time because he’s forced to listen to the dumb stuff that his best friend keeps mouthing off to his master. If only Mac could see how his cringe is turning him inside out, though that’s never stopped Mac before. 

When the car finally comes to a standstill, he tries to kick the trunk open, but finds the he cannot apply the pressure. 

“Wait - this is actually prison! You told me I wasn’t going!” Mac is saying in the front. 

His master ignores Mac. Moments later the trunk opens. Intense light spills inside, which only grazes him like the pull of the edge of cardboard across his skin. The UV light must be reflecting off other surfaces, or the area shaded to reduce direct sunlight from imparting on him. 

“You can get out now,” Malvo offers.

Malvo doesn’t help Dennis out. He leaves the trunk open, forcing Dennis to unfold and pull himself out. Gravel crunches under his dress shoes that are two sizes too big. He straightens his shirt, flattens his trousers. A parking cover stands low over him. The sunlight shines intensely where the black shadow ends, a thick white beam of hot, radiant light. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust. Slowly, shapes emerge through the white, coils of razor wire above fences in the distance, with long, swaying grass beyond. Further  in, rather than the prison being built above ground, a large area of excavation has been done to embed the prison buildings beneath ground level. A large, green courtyard is fitted into the centre the size of a baseball field, filling out the lowered square with grass which meets the four sides of the prison buildings, each banked by the earth on their opposing sides.

It is, by far, the smartest idea for enclosing inmates Dennis has ever seen. Access to the central courtyard does not permit someone access to an escape route. The flat top of the ring of buildings is outline by yet another line of razor wire fences. The only access into the lower end of the prison seems to be the only building above ground level in the area, aside from the covered carports. With a set up like this, Dennis can only imagine how many security cameras there must be. 

“Dennis,” His master calls his attention, “ _ You will not satiate your hunger on anyone _ .”

“But I’m starving!” He complains, his ravenous hunger not strong enough to break through the command, but enough to plea against it.

Malvo eyes him. “If I permit you to eat, you will appear on CCTV. Do you want this to be easy? Yes, or no?”

“Wha- I don’t know. Easy?”

Malvo nods. “You are free to eat your friend here after you have extracted Lester.”

“ _ Eat _ me?!” Mac exclaims, stepping out of the car. 

Mac stares at him, his mouth agape in that dumbfounded way that makes Dennis want to slap him, yet he smells as tantalising as the lobster dish at Guigino’s. Before Dennis can make his fangs pop out, he is washed with an extreme amount of repugnance, causing him to recoil. It’s his master’s command kicking in, but it’s also his natural will conflicting with his instincts. The feeling surfaces a flashback to several days ago when he almost killed Mac in the apartment. He had hovered over Mac, drained him almost completely. If he hadn’t stopped, if Dee hadn’t walked in with that baby, he would have killed Mac. He would have killed him before he could make sure Mac could survive, before he could feel the thrill of hurting the man over and over and watching him reanimate to be hurt several times more. 

He backs down. Shakes himself. “Wait, where am I? What am I doing?”

“We’re outside Minnesota’s Maximum Security Prison.” Malvo slams the trunk shut. “What you’re going to be doing is very simple. You are going to find a way in to extract Lester Nygaard from his prison cell, then bring him to me.  _ Unharmed _ .” 

“Extract - how am I meant to get  _ anyone  _ out of this place let alone get myself in?!”

“You’ll find a way,” Malvo says, leaning against the car, his hands clasped in his lap. 

“Why don’t you do it yourself, you psycho?!” Mac accuses.

Dennis grits his teeth. “Mac!!”

Malvo turns his head to look back at Mac, who is hovering next to the passenger side door. “Would you rather go in his place?”

“Nope!”

Malvo nods. “You’re right about one thing, Ronald Mcdonald. We do have a key point of similarity. The spawn of The Devil hides from no human and no deity, but The Devil’s spies walk their second life unseen, and in too, their second death. Like me, you have the fortune, or misfortune, of God’s eyes still upon you. So, to remain covert, our friend Dennis is the man for the job.”

Mac squints. “...What? Is that… a metaphor for being gay?”

Malvo clutches his chest and laughs wholeheartedly.

_ ‘No… I don’t get it either,’ _ Dennis says in his mind.

In an eerily calm voice despite audible laughter, Malvo telepathically sends to Dennis,  _ ‘Because you haven’t eaten, you’ll be invisible on CCTV. Use that to your advantage.’ _

_ ‘If I do this…’ _ Dennis responds, though his master’s attention is still occupied with laughing at Mac.  _ ‘You have to promise me that you’ll teach me how to… how to make people vampires.’ _

Malvo’s laughter settles. He levels his gaze toward Dennis. “Sure.”

Dennis nods. “Okay. What’s this guy’s name again?”

“Lester Nygaard.”

“Dude! What - what are you doing? What am I meant to do?”

“I’ll be waiting,” Malvo says, “ _ Go in, now. _ ”

At that, Dennis turns on his feet and heads toward the entrance to the prison, careful to keep to the shade provided by the parking cover. Before he walks inside, he hears Mac saying something to his master. 

“Yeah… So do I really need to be here?”

His master throws him keys which chink together when they hit Mac on the shoulder and fall into his hands. 

“You can go whenever you want, son.”

“Sweet!”

Dennis can’t turn back, but after all the stuff he heard Mac say in the car, he’s starting to lose sight on his goal to bequeath the gift of eternal life to someone as  _ annoying _ as Mac. If Mac isn’t around by the time he’s done with this task, well, bad luck. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaa this fic is so close to being done! I'm so mad that i don't have time to work on chapters rn, I promise i'll be back within the next few weeks with more stuff once my exams are over! Thanks for keeping up with the new postings <3


	25. (t)ofu -destination reversal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mac has spent a lot of time and energy convincing others (and himself) that he knows exactly what is going on, only after arriving at the Minnesota Maximum State Prison, he realises that the guy in the trunk looks awfully like Dennis even though it's not meant to be him. What's the best way to convince everyone that he was right? To run away!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my dudes i'm so sorry it has taken me 2 months to update this fic! The story arc is coming to a close soon-ish and I needed to make sure the important story elements/emotions were coming across in the chapters without that being lost by cutting them up into shorter parts. As such - the next few chapters will be around 5k each! 
> 
> chapter warning for a Fargo (TV) typical deus ex machina which is so ridiculous not to include in this mash-up. please don't hate me. 
> 
> hope you enjoy it! :D

“Yeah, so…” Mac starts, looking away from the man who supposedly  _ killed  _ Dennis and to the back of the man who supposedly  _ is _ Dennis. He watches this ‘Dennis’ impersonator slink under the shadows towards the prison building, watches how this guy doesn’t once look back or interact with Mac in any way. Decision made, he taps his hands on top of the car only to yank them away the moment the boiling hot exterior sears his palms. He recoils to press his thumbs over his burnt skin until the pain reduces, then chances a glance at Malvo who is standing by nonplussed. “...Do I really need to be here?”

“You can go whenever you want, son.”

Malvo flashes a totally creepy grin before tossing Mac the car keys. Mac jumps and catches them like a pro. 

“Sweet!”

In an instant, Mac jumps into the car, slides over into the driver’s seat and turns the ignition. He glances in the rearview mirror and sees nothing in his way, then startles when he looks over his shoulder and sees Malvo standing beside the car with his arms crossed. Mac jerks the steering wheel so that he doesn’t reverse into him, the side mirror just nicking the hem of Malvo’s jacket as he flies by. He then kicks the car into drive and screeches onto the hot bitumen and tears out of the prison complex. 

The scent of gas fuelled fire. The wet slop of a limp body leaking blood over the shiny linoleum. A white wisp of a man standing beside the old one, a severed head in his hand drips a waterfall of blood. 

His shout cuts him out of his creeping vision. “Screw Dennis!” 

Mac doesn’t feel guilty for leaving them for a second. Whoever they were. He finds it too hard to believe that the ugly old man was the same guy who killed Dennis. He’s just some dude who Mac witnessed being reanimated in a moritary of some random town. And sure, okay, Mac thought he was tailing Dennis there but how can  _ Dennis Reynolds _ do something like that? Dennis is the biggest pussy Mac knows! Plus, Mac thinks about how long it took him to convince Dennis to not eat the skin of apples, and yet  _ one _ sentence from that clown and Dennis walks into the prison without question?  _ No way _ . That dude, no matter how much he looks like Dennis, has to be some kind of imposter. 

The severed head spins around on the suspended strands of hair and its eyes glare up at Mac, eyeballs red and blank. 

Mac’s had enough of it. He doesn’t want to be surrounded by any more half-baked Dennis look-a-like jerks who won’t even get him off even when he asks nicely. So no, he doesn’t feel guilty in the slightest. In fact, he’s never been more sure of his decision to ditch everyone and run. Having to say all those things about what’s been happening to him over the last few days aloud? Yeah, it’s totally reminded him of all the bad shit that Dennis has done, not to mention the bad shit Dennis has  _ made  _ him do, and none of it sounded remotely badass to his ears. Just plain  _ dangerous _ . 

Mac laughs tersely at the thought of Dennis trying to break someone out of prison too. Dennis wouldn’t even agree to helping him and Charlie sneak drugs  _ into _ prison for Luther, so how the hell is he going to get a whole person  _ out _ ? Mac almost wants to be around to see how Dennis spectacularly fails, except that Mac doesn’t want to get roped into it, and besides, he’s already decided that the man he left isn’t his best friend.

The prison has already disappeared behind him. Mac thinks about how this whole thing has become too messy, too much trouble, and just plain confusing. He has had enough of denying, accepting and reverting again with having come out as gay, he doesn’t need this whole - is it Dennis, is he just crazy - business. He decides that he should trust his gut. Putting some distance between himself, Dennis and Minnesota is what he needs. 

“Screw Hollywood too,” He says to himself, “I’m going back to Philly!” 

He’s desperate to go home. He misses his apartment, he’s way behind on his asspounder reps, and he’s interested to see what Charlie and Frank are up to. They’re probably bored without him - except he then remembers that when he had called Charlie earlier that morning, Charlie had told him that he was on a cruise. Mac remembers telling Charlie that if he couldn’t find a way to send him money, Charlie should ditch the boat and go to Hollywood so he better find some way to give Charlie a call and tell him that it’s no longer necessary to commandeer a ship to help Mac out.

Still, there is only enough gas in this car to get him to Chicago, but Mac has another problem. The car isn’t his. Before he’s out of gas, he’ll have to find a place to desert the car and figure out a way to get back home. If Dennis could make it hitch-hiking all the way to Bemidji, then he can make it back to Philly too. He bets that Dennis would have done anything to prove a point, but Mac hopes that he won’t have to complete any sexual favours for gross truckies in order to get back home. 

He speeds down the I-94 and joins the slip lane onto the I-90 towards Chicago. Before he can even see the bridge that crosses over the St Croix River into Wisconsin, he meets traffic banked up so thickly that he has to slow down to a stop. He peers down the four lanes of traffic but all he can see are the glistening tops of cars in the midday sun, and the occasional throwing of fists and trash out of windows.

Mac sits in the traffic for several minutes absolutely bored out of his mind. A large bus with some extremely grumpy looking passengers glaring down from their raised seats slowly crawls in the left most lane. Apart from the bus, the left lane is moving faster than any of the other lanes. Cars with better acceleration than the bus wedge into the gap that the bus leaves in front. Rather than rolling forwards when the car in front does, Mac keeps his position, waiting until the car beside him creeps forward so that he can squeeze into the adjacent lane. He manages to get over to the third lane and is about to join the fast moving left until he spots some lights flashing ahead. 

His first instinct is to think that it’s the police after  _ him _ . His next is to think that it’s more likely that there has been an accident, but he can’t help but dwell on his initial thought. He stays in the stationary lane, watching the bus pass several strings of traffic and quickly reach the police checkpoint. If he had joined the lane when he was planning to, he wouldn’t be far behind, and then he would have cops asking him to identify himself and search his car and... 

He begins to sweat. He doesn’t have any kind of documentation for the car he’s driving. He can’t lie and say it’s his old pal Malvo’s because earlier when he was looking through the glove box, he found a family picture. Malvo could have lied about his name, but he’s certainly not a black dude with waist length dreads. The second the cops run his plates, let alone if they think he’s got anything to do with what Dennis did to that undercover cop, he’s going straight to the prison he just left behind. Mac swears loudly. If Dee never stole his money, he wouldn’t have been caught on the ATM camera. So really, instead of blaming all his troubles on Dennis, he should be blaming  _ her _ .

He startles when a bus horn booms. He follows the sound and sees the same bus he saw earlier roaring down the opposite side of the highway. He rocks in his seat nervously. Ahead, he can now make out a crop of cop cars which have blocked off the bridge, and cops on foot checking out cars and then turning them back down the highway. They’re clearly looking for something… or someone… He absolutely has to turn around, only he’s way passed the exit lane and in several hundred yards, the median strip will turn from shorn grass to a cement block leading up to the curve in the bridge. 

He grips the steering wheel tight and accelerates into the left lane, his bumper tapping the car that was about to speed forward. The car honks angrily at Mac’s brash decision, and the driver starts to get out of his car, but not wanting to waste any more time, Mac pushes the car up the grassy bank and swings it around. The tires spin and kick dirt in the air and he joins the opposite side of the highway with a clunk. With other cars scarce on the road, he has plenty of room to paint the road with dirt and stabilise, a bubble of glee in his stomach at the fun and the fear of it all. He’s so god damn pissed that none of the gang had been around to see what a totally badass stunt he just pulled off.

Just as he is able to right the car and start driving straight, a pair of police motorcycles whir and start careening down the highway behind him. Without further hesitation, Mac floors it. His heart pounds in his neck. His hands almost slip off the wheel because he’s sweating so much. Sirens whir at an impossibly loud level, then the silence between rings is interrupted by someone speaking on a loudspeaker. 

“PLEASE REMOVE YOURSELF FROM THE STOLEN VEHICLE!” 

Mac accelerates, glancing nervously in the rearview and feels a thrill when it looks like he’s actually outpacing the police. He gears the car as fast as it can go, the speedometer ticking in the corner of the display, bitumen clears beneath the wheels in a blur. He approaches the bus that he had passed earlier and zips passed it in the empty adjacent lane, whooping as he does so. The only thing that stops him from continuing at this rate are large signs indicating that he’s driving towards Minneapolis, which is  _ not _ where he wants to go at all. Good thing that he’s not too far from the slip lane that joins onto the road that he had used to access the highway in the first place. If he turns back onto it, all he’ll have to do is scream right passed the prison and cross the river further up north. It’s that or driving in the complete opposite direction. 

He slows down for the turn, moves his hands to the left side of the wheel and wrenches it to the right. The instant he does, it’s as if he’s thrown himself into another dimension. Suddenly he cannot see anything besides blinding white. Gravity no longer exists. He’s a bodiless entity floating in nothing and everything. He thinks for a moment that maybe he had steered to tightly and crashed, but he doesn’t remember the car flipping over or ramming into a tree or anything like that. He can just remember the rumble of the engine, the sweat lathered wheel under his grip, the red and blue lights flashing in his mirrors. 

That, and he doesn’t feel any pain whatsoever. It’s like he just…. Exists. He rubs his eyes, or where he thinks his eyes should be, but he does not feel the pressure of his thumbs against his eyelids. He tries to speak and feels that he has no mouth. Tries to kick and punch and feels the motion of moving through space but not the clench of his fists nor the sight of his toes. 

He feels like this for some time, or no time at all, he really can’t tell… then, he becomes aware of something above him. He looks up, though he’s doubtful of the existence of a physical body, and sees a shape begin to form amongst the white. A perfect circle, a silver disc. It permeates the white, clean cut like a knife through tofu. Then, from the centre, a cylinder of light beams down in a warmer kind of white than Mac’s surroundings. The disc continues to spin but slows, and continues to shine down upon him warmly despite the cold, alien environment. 

He wonders if it’s God, but something tells him it isn’t anything from heaven or hell, but rather not from this world. Hot bitumen smacks his ass hard and suddenly the sun-baked road becomes tangible at the exact same moment that his understanding of what he’s looking at becomes crystallized; a UFO. A god damn UFO. And it’s still there, spinning and glowing and shining upon him. 

He continues to sit, utterly dumbfounded by what he’s seeing. Slowly he becomes more attuned to his surroundings -- aside from the shooting pain up his spine from the way his tailbone smacked against the ground. Behind him, he can hear his car running, the engine growling, the key still in the ignition because the car beeps at him. A more startling sound overlays the beep, an upgrade to a loud honk as a car whips passed him on the open road. 

Mac snaps his head around to watch the car speed away, exhaust smoke fuming into the sky. They don’t even stop, totally undeterred by the literal alien object which is currently casting a cylinder of light upon Mac. The red taillights of the car disappears around a bend. Mac draws his eyes back down the road and realises that he’s been moved. The exit lane that he had been aiming for is way behind him. 

The sound of police sirens taser him awake. He scrambles to his feet, and just as he rises, the white light above him zooms away, leaving him with an extremely unsettling feeling, as if the light only ever existed in the corners of his eyelashes, one frozen blink ago. He darts to his car. Hands on the wheel. Eyes on the rearview. 

Police hover like the mirages of heat rippling off summer asphalt. Mac collects a small amount of relief that they’ve given up their chase because it will give him time to swing around and take that exit. However a split second later, it’s as if time has unfrozen, the blind cycle due to resume, and time speeds up. The police skirting the backward horizon appear to come barrelling towards Mac at such high speeds that they could be swallowed by Mac’s frightened gulp. 

The car is already running but Mac’s hands slip on the wheel and rub off the gearbox and he’s sweating more, shaking more, petrified. He watches in the side mirror, mentally submitting to his fate and the lies that he’ll spew to get out of it, only to catch sight of the police bikes flit off the highway and cut over the median strip. They weave through the thick build up of eastern travelling traffic and stop altogether around a yellow convertible with the roof down, and a shiny headed man at the wheel. 

“PLEASE REMOVE YOURSELF FROM THE STOLEN VEHICLE.” 

Mac actually feels  _ offended _ that he’s not the one being chased, and feels that he should turn around and flip off the prison as he drives passed, but the moment he tries to do so, that unsettling feeling from before resurfaces. He thinks it would make him ill to do anything but drive forward. So that’s what he does. Abandons the scene altogether and keys to just under the speed limit and rides the rolled out tongue of a thrilling chase right back into a city he doesn’t want anything to do with. He supposes that he’ll have to find a way back to Philly via another route. 

  
  


 

The problem with Minneapolis is that there are cops  _ everywhere _ . Mac doesn’t think he’s ever seen so many in his life; they’re littered on every street of the city. Something must be going down. Something so bad that they have to have eyes on every corner. It’s making him unbearably uneasy. All he wants to do is find somewhere where he can park his car and figure out what to do next. 

He keeps driving down road after road in search of peace, but he keeps getting wigged out by the police cars rolling down the streets or lurking in pairs on foot along sidewalks. Then the gas indicator illuminates an orange E. He’ll be in deep shit if he runs out of gas in the middle of the street. He has to find a parking spot like ten minutes ago. 

Eventually he gets pushed onto a street which is, for the time being, devoid of cops. God answers his prayers when a car leaves a parking spot and Mac is able to nab it. He rolls down the window and takes a breath of fresh city air. A large building presses into the sky, taller than most other buildings in the area. Large red letters spell out ‘Stussy Supermall’. It’s weird. He would think that there would be more cop activity on a street with a mall situated on it, but strangely enough, for the whole five minutes he’s been sitting there, he hasn’t spotted a single cop. They haven’t even lurked across an intersection. 

He doesn’t know if that’s good or bad, but at this point, he doesn’t care. He’s hungry, tired, sick of running and homesick too. Along the busy sidewalk, he spots a telephone booth and decides that he’ll call around and see if he can get any help. First, he rifles through the compartments in the double-stolen car and is able to scrounge together enough to pay for the parking meter, or pay for a long distance phone call and maybe a dollar menu burger. The decision isn’t a hard one to make. 

He’d considered trying to get an extra freebie for his surname being the establishment’s namesake, but he stopped himself, wary of giving away his identity in case there were cops in plain clothes around. After scoffing down two cheeseburgers, he exits the McDonald’s and wipes his hands on his pants. He stands out front, just out of the courses of the people walking down the crowded street. The shop awnings shade half of the footpath, but even those marching underneath the scorching midday sun don’t seem to be bothered, too focused on getting to their destination to pay attention to the heat of the day. 

Mac thinks about what he should do next, but gets quickly distracted by a woman’s yelp. His eyes trace the sound and he spots a blonde being wrangled by a man further down in the crowd.  

“Not so close, Daddy!” She yells at him, “You don’t want me to burn!”

“Shut up!” The father curtly replies, though Mac thinks that the man looks barely ten years older than the blonde.

Mac watches the man wrestle the woman more into the middle of the shaded footpath. Off to their right, Mac spots a pay phone. He pulls out his change and pushes the coins aside to count how much he has left. He could maybe speak for a few minutes. He holds his coins in his fist and makes his way toward the pay phone. 

The woman from before continues to speak obnoxiously loud, as if she wishes her conversation to be witnessed by the entire city. 

“Daddy, I don’t understand why I have to do this! We’ve already funded Varga’s passage, as well as that  _ hideous _ building, what else do we have to do for a little freedom?”

“Just hand out the fliers, Simone,” The man replies, equally as loudly.

She switches tone and laughs derisively. “You know I don’t have to do what you say. You don’t have what Grandpa Otto had.”

Mac pays the two no attention, only makes use of the space that is cleared around them by the surrounding crowd as a faster route to get to the phone booth. Except when Mac slips into that open space, the man shoves into him on his way passed. Mac is so blown away by the colliding force that he gets knocked to the ground, and his coins scatter across the asphalt. 

“Watch it, dude!” Mac snaps. 

“Jeez, Dodd, you gotta be more careful!” The woman says in a mocking tone, pulling the man to a stop. 

On his knees, Mac snatches his coins together before they roll under the feet of those in the encroaching crowd. He’s able to collect them all, plus a few more stray coins, then stands up.

Mac does a quick ocular pat down on the two to quickly decipher threat levels and potential manipulation strategies. The girl is pretty. Long, blonde hair, blue eyes, tanned skin, freckles. She probably has great breasts except for the fact that they’re bound by a button up blouse which is never attractive on women unless it’s unbuttoned - that’s something Dennis told him. This girl would probably rate pretty high in Dennis’ books. At least an eight or a generous nine. 

As for the man, he’s far more attractive, and that’s not just because Mac is gay. This man looks  _ hot _ . He’s a gruff, muscular looking man with a good amount of facial hair and a haircut just like his own. Now that Mac is facing the man, he can see flecks of gray closer to the roots of his hair, so maybe him being a Dad isn’t so totally farfetched… and deeply attractive.

Manipulation is definitely on the table, however, threat levels are high. The man’s holding his daughter with one fist knotted into her collar, her shirt pulled so tightly that Mac can see the cotton cutting into her neck. Mac will have to play his cards right. 

“Did you find all your coins?” She asks sweetly, though she hadn’t bothered to help at all. 

Mac holds the coins he found behind his back and replies indignantly, “No! You shoved me and made me throw my coins into the crowd. You owe me!”

The man grunts in response, giving Mac a quarter of a glance before shoving his daughter back onto their path. Mac starts after them and grabs the man on his extremely firm bicep. 

“Dude, are you gonna pay me back or what?” Mac snaps. 

The guy flinches Mac’s hand off as he turns around, a sour look on his face. He tightens his grip on the collar of his daughter’s shirt and grunts once more before pushing his daughter back down the street. The woman twists around and meets Mac’s eyes. Scared, but defiant. Jesus would probably want him to help the woman… He feels the weight of the coins in his hand… He actually has enough coins now to make a proper phone call so even if he can’t con two people out of more money, the extra he found on the ground has helped him, so it’s probably God telling him that he’s on the right track.

With renewed motivation, he beelines toward the phone booth. He closes the door behind him, sealing himself into the tiny cubicle away from the bustling crowd. Inside, it’s boiling hot. The shop awning shade ends just before the booth, so it gets the full brunt of the midday sun. Mac has to pull up a corner of his shirt just to pick up the phone because the plastic is that hot. He dials automatically. It doesn’t matter that Mac doesn’t have any battery on his cell phone anymore because Charlie hasn’t changed his number since 1993, and Mac uses Paddy’s work phone to make out calls all the time, so punching in numbers on the manual telephone doesn’t feel foreign to him at all. 

The phone rings twice before Charlie answers it. Before his friend can say anything, Mac says, “Charlie! It’s me - Mac! You will  _ never _ believe what I-”

“Mac! Dude, perfect timing! I have a huge decision to make-” Charlie interjects, his hastiness quickly becoming contemplative. “-Ugh, so, I’m trying to a better Dad or whatever so that The Waitress likes me more better, but I’ve got this ugh, this opportunity. You don’t think that The Waitress would want me to be a vampire, would she? She probably wouldn’t like that…”

Mac makes use of Charlie trailing off and jumps back into saying what he had called Charlie for, “Dude, you wouldn’t believe it! I was just abducted by aliens!”

“Yeah man, look,” Charlie starts, “I’m on board with the whole vampire thing now but aliens? That’s a stretch. I can’t accept it. I just won’t. It’s too much, okay? All I want to know is if she would think being a vampire is awesome or-”

“Oh man, being a vampire is the shit! You’re invincible and people do what you say… I mean, I’m not sure that I am one anymore but it was pretty cool when I was.”

“Right, right, right.  _ We _ think it’s cool… which means that The Waitress probably  _ doesn’t  _ think it’s cool because she’s always thinking the opposite to us… so following that logic, I should probably… not… Yeah, cool. Cool… thanks man!”

Charlie promptly hangs up and the machine spits the change into a little tray. He could try calling again to make sure that Charlie isn’t trying to get to Hollywood, but Charlie’s in one of his moods where he doesn’t want to listen to what Mac says, so at least he tried. If Charlie rocks up in Hollywood with a boat in tow, it’s totally not Mac’s problem to deal with. He collects the remaining coins and keys them back into the machine. He calls his Mom, who answers on the fourth time he dials. 

“Hi Mom! It’s me! Mac!”

She grunts in response.

“I know I haven’t spoken to you in a while but I thought you should know that I have been busy getting rich at the bar because things got a lot better there when Dennis left, but then it was also bad and then even worse when he came back because - Oh yeah, you wouldn’t know this but Dennis is -- he’s a -- God damn it! I can’t explain it. He’s just… around! He’s around.”

“Mmm.”

“Yeah, anyway,” Mac looks over his shoulder to make sure no one is watching him. He catches sight of the red neon from the Stussy Supermall gleaming in the sun, the letters blurring into one blob through the sweaty glass. “Some crazy shit is happening to me, Mom. I… I think I just got abducted by aliens.”

“Mmmmmmm….”

“I know! That’s a whole thing, plus all of this stuff that Dennis is making me do…” He pauses. He rests his forehead against the telephone box, ignoring the blistering heat that presses straight into his brain. “Mom, I’m having a lot of doubts…” He stands up straight. Shoulders squared. Chin raised. “Doubts about God… about what I’m doing... I’m not sure what to think anymore. I don’t understand his vision for me. It’s worse than when I realised I was gay because instead of everything making sense -  _ nothing  _ makes sense now!!”

The tone beeps, notifying him that he doesn’t have much time left unless another coin is inserted.

“I don’t know what to do…”

“Mm.”

“I love you, Mom.”

She says nothing in response. He can hear her breathing, and that’s enough because Mac knows her language and knows that that particular silence means she’s saying that she loves him back. He holds his breath for a moment, letting the sound of her breathing wash over him. He really needed to hear her saying that. She always knows exactly what to say to him.

Then the machine cuts off the phone call. He hangs the receiver up and stands in the booth for a while.  People bustle down the busy street with their destination laid out before them. They don’t even have to know where they’re going, they just move with the crowd and they end up where they need to go. That’s how Mac’s survived life this long. God put him on a path and when he got bored, he always had ideas. And when he was fresh out of ideas, his friends would help entertain him. Now he’s without a clue of what to do and not a friend who would pay attention to him.

What’s worse is that he’s afraid that he’s going to hell. Not because of being gay... Since he spent time with that church on the cruise the gang went on, he found out that being gay isn’t actually a sin. Rather, he’s afraid that he’s going to hell because of being a vampire, if only for a short amount of time. And Mac has no idea where to begin doing penance for that if it is indeed a sin. Only, any time he tries to bring vampires up with anyone, they all think he’s insane. They think he’s hell bent on Dennis who  _ they _ all think is dead when he actually  _ isn’t _ , but Mac hasn’t had the chance to prove it. He could almost prove it to Mandy last night and then everything went south. 

He meant what he said on the phone. He doesn’t know what to do. He can’t find his path, although he’s not sure he ever really heard God’s voice but if he ever did, he definitely can’t hear Him now. He has absolutely zero idea of what to do in a city where he has no money, no friends or family, and no apartment to go home to. All he needs right now is someone to tell him what to do, and so he prays...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a picture of [Simone](https://cdn1.thr.com/sites/default/files/imagecache/scale_crop_768_433/2015/11/fargo_s2_rachelkeller.jpg) (from Fargo season 2) and her father, [Dodd](https://nyoobserver.files.wordpress.com/2015/10/fargo_jeffreydonovan_202_0752_cl_f_hires2.jpg?quality=80).


	26. Prison Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (would you believe i drafted this chapter over a year ago? and here we finally are!)

Dennis leaves the two men to bicker by the parked car as he follows the shaded walkway. Bright light glints off speckles of recycled glass embedded in the asphalt adjacent to him, taunting him with the warmth and the brilliance of the sunlight that bathes the rest of the world. Mac has no idea how lucky he is to be able to go out during the day whenever he pleases, without a lick of red energy on his tongue. And soon he won’t… 

_ “Everything that Dennis has done, he has done to protect me. Because we’re in love.” _

Dennis cannot wait to make sure that Mac’s infuriating idiocy will never see the light of day again, and he has a way to do so, so long as he successfully completes the task his master has assigned to him. Before he can enter the prison building, he’ll need to select a role for himself to assume. Don Chump is dead. Brian LeFevre - tired and used. Dennis Reynolds? He wouldn’t want to compromise his true identity in this situation.

He doesn’t have long before he reaches the entrance to settle on an identity, so he resorts to basing his new role inspired by his clothing. Shortly after reviving his master, Malvo had made him discard his bloody clothes and find something that fitted, but he did not have enough time (nor willpower) to find something blue to make his eyes pop. Rather, he acquired clothes removed from a John Smith awaiting incineration; a pink checkered long sleeve shirt, some dark grey dress trousers paired with sushi patterned socks and a pair of ill-fitting buffed leather brown loafers. Overall, not a great look. 

Dennis pauses before the lone cubic building on the otherwise flat expanse of asphalt - save for the now distant ranks of cars underneath the parking cover. The car in which he had been squashed inside presently screeches out of the parking lot, rumbling with great anxiety as the gate barricade lifts at the exit, and speeds off again once the passage is clear. He looks back to see that a figure of someone is still standing casually in the shade. 

A ripple of anger rises in him but his outrage is quelled by a message his master sends to him in his mind. 

_ ‘You’ll find him again.’  _ And one final reassurance,  _ 'I’ll be waiting.’ _

So Mac had fled. Typical. 

Dennis turns back to the entrance of the building. An elevator shaft at the rear descends into the depressed prison complex, cleverly designed so as to contain prisoners in an exposed underground area rather than above ground with several reinforced fences surrounding. The prison’s very design shows that minimal security measures are needed, supported too by only one CCTV camera positioned above the door to the only above-ground building. A large sign situated before the doorway reads, ‘Minnesota Correctional Facility - Oak Park Heights - Level 5 Maximum Security Prison’.

Standing in front of the door, it irks him that he cannot see his reflection in the white plexiglass. He touches up his hair by feel, grimacing at the traces of a goatee growing back, and reminds himself that he cannot enter without a new role to play. He quickly sorts through the people he’s met in the course of his human life - someone who is both appropriate for his attire and for his task at hand.

There was one man, Dennis recalls, when he was finding selects for Dee during her annoying spot of depression several years ago. Initially Dennis had had to rule him out because even though the man fit the requirements for a potential select for Dee in terms of having low self-esteem, was pitifully stupid in terms of career choice and life choices in general, and was sordidly unattractive. The part that ruled him out for being a potential select was that he was a Frenchman not from Quebec but from Paris. Dennis recalls the man’s name as Antoine Crosier, a name so brilliant that it made up some percentage of the man’s ineffectual mark on the world, and thus too good for Sweet Dee. 

Dennis licks his lips. He likes the sound of Antoine Crosier. A psychologist who works for a private company in the city. Oh, it would be just like Antoine Crosier to wear a pink shirt and loafers on a Friday. He likes to bring a bit of flare to the office through his flamboyant outfits and may even covertly take his clients to lunch where he will bill them for his extended therapy sessions. Fitting, although Dennis will have to change his new persona’s career to match the task of getting a man out of jail. A lawyer will do. He looks down at himself, tucking in his shirt, happy to play with this new identity. Granted, he’ll have to overplay his natural charisma to compensate for Antoine’s obscure outfit, but well, wouldn’t that be fun?

Antoine approaches the door and pushes it open with a significant amount of swagger and confidence in his movements. The door zips shut behind him with the expulsion of an air conditioner on high. A man in a white polo shirt looks up from a pure white receptionist desk which acts as surface that extends either side until it meets the white walls. To the left of the long desk is a silver elevator with its doors closed. Two guards stand either side of it, both dressed in clean and well-pressed light grey uniforms to complement the change of hues from silver to pristine white. The two guards remain absolutely stationary when he enters, which irks Dennis but does not bother airheaded Antoine. The receptionist taps a book laid open on the desk with the end of his pen before returning to his work at the computer. 

Dennis - Antoine - crosses the room with great purpose, long strides, his heels pulling out of his loose shoes. Antoine looks down at the open book. It’s a sign-in page with details Antoine Crosier does not have.

Dennis recalls the last time that he tried to acquire an ID for the FBI, which involved killing an unsuspecting agent, and thinks how he could achieve that with the receptionist and two guards on watch. He recalls how he’d taken the FBI agent in the night, had run his teeth along the man’s quivering neck and had sunk his fangs into his jugular and - suddenly a wave of illness washes over him, preventing him from recalling the glorious memory of satiating his hunger, and dispelling any desire to suck blood at all. 

The shock of it renders Dennis silent for a moment. He considers whether the feeling had been what other people experience as guilt, but he has nothing to base it off because he’s never felt guilty for anything in his life. He can’t know for sure but he considers that maybe it’s his body telling him that he doesn’t  _ need _ to drink because just the night before he had satiated his hunger by draining the couple who lived across the street from Mandy’s. 

Amazingly, just thinking about that memory makes the repulsive feeling return. How curious his new body is. After some time listening and travelling, he is more and more aware of what he can do, of what powers vampirism affords him. Not long ago he had inadvertently ordered Mac to never tell anyone that he’s a vampire, an order which was yelled so ferociously that it seems to be a permanent instruction Mac cannot disobey. Part of that success must surely be due to Dennis’ natural charismatic excellence, but for it to physically impede Mac from ever revealing his secret? That’s a skill no human could ever master. Oh, how he’ll have fun seeing how far he can take this identity and see how much manipulation he can do to get his way. He might even get off on it. 

Antoine pushes the book away and turns toward the elevator, only to receive stern glares from the guards. 

The receptionist clears his throat. “If you intend on visiting, you need to fill out the form so I can print you a temporary pass.”

Antoine glowers at the receptionist. He says, very crossly, and in an unfortunately weak French accent, “I do not need a pass.”

Upon remembering how terrible he is at accents, Dennis so desperately wants to not continue with it but is stuck with it now that Antoine has used it. 

“It’s protocol, Frenchie,” The receptionist replies, pushing the book back in front of him. 

Antoine slams his palm on the desk, a move which aligns direct eye contact between himself and the receptionist. He bellows, “I am a lawyer from France! I do not need a measly pass!”

The receptionist’s face turns supple. He blinks, then says, “You don’t need a pass.”

Dennis feels a his chest swell and his shoulders lift. 

Then the receptionist then presses a button. After a short alarm rings, the elevator doors open. A glass backing reveals the blue sky in high contrast to the white of the room. The two guards either side of the door exchange a look, then one walks over to the desk and clatters his black gun on the white surface.

He hisses, “This isn’t protocol.”

The receptionist repeats blankly, “He doesn’t need a pass.”

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Dennis says quietly to himself, hiding a smile as he passes the other confused guard and slips into the elevator. 

He takes a cursory glance at the buttons. Amongst the several numbers listed, he opts to pressing ‘G’, easily deducing that it denotes ‘ground floor’. The doors slide shut after another alarm fires, then the box begins to lower. Dennis observes the expanse of blue descend onto the wide square of grass beneath banked by foreboding grey structures built into the sides of the earth. The lower he descends, the more the current success of his master plan excites him. He begins to feel giddy, his finger tingling, his mouth threatening to beam a devilish grin. His mind races to imagine all the ways he could use this new found talent to get what he wants - nay, what he  _ deserves _ in life. 

However, this elated feeling is cut short when, rather than lowering to the ground floor as he suspects, the elevator stops about two-thirds of the way down. The doors open facing a white wall with a sign which reads, ‘Guard’s Quarters’. A thin corridor pans around a corner and leads down toward several rooms. Already, the environment of the prison is vastly different to that of the above ground level. For one, Dennis can tell that it’s  _ full _ despite the fact that he can’t  _ see _ anyone yet. 

He places one hand on the doorway to prevent the elevator doors from shutting, holds his breath, and listens. He can acutely hear the heartbeats of people occupying space on this level. Some sitting, some sleeping, others milling about the space, their heartbeats throbbing and staining the pristine white surrounds in red. The longer he listens, the wider his scope becomes, encompassing the upper and lower levels, scanning over people in cells and bathrooms and a cafeteria and he wonders if he concentrates enough, could he hear those of the men playing basketball on the lower courtyard?

Another floor number lights up. Antoine steps out into the empty hallway and lets the doors glide shut behind him. He pauses for a moment, hesitant as to what to do exactly. He holds his breath low, his listening keen. He cannot believe how much he can understand about the space that he cannot actually  _ see _ , all because there are people existing there. These powers that he has… are exactly that -  _ powerful _ . He can actually  _ hear _ heart palpitations through walls, through plaster and wiring and through the thick cotton fibres that sew together mattresses and through the blankets that bed those who are sleeping. He can hear the existence of people so well that he can almost picture them, like an infrared map of body heat except it’s the throbbing hearts of his potential prey. 

He considers flying through and tearing them -- another wave of sickness washes over him. 

“You sir, what’re you doing here?”

A guard appears in the hallway in front of him, having slipped out of Dennis’ periphery. Antoine stands up straight, remembering that his task at hand, as a lawyer, is to swiftly take Lester Nygaard out of jail. 

Antoine tilts his head and sends the guard a prim look. Sans a terrible french accent, he instructs, “Guard, show me to the prisoner, Lester Nygaard.”

The guard frowns. “You’re in the wrong area for visitin’. How’d you get here?” Then, he begins to suspect the plain clothed man before him (despite the sushi printed socks) and puts up a guarded stance. “Show me your pass.”

This time, Antoine levels his gaze at the guard and commands his voice with an air of bassy superiority. “I said,  _ take me to the prisoner by the name of Lester Nygaard _ .”

The guard, like the receptionist, goes placid, although he does not respond. 

Annoyed, Dennis prompts, “What’s stopping you?” 

“I don’t know the prisoners by name. I-I need to look his name up in the registry,” The guard explains. 

Dennis - Antoine sighs. “Unbelievable. Where is this registry? I’m late for my appointment!”

The guard edges toward the elevator, but stops, half turning. “If ya have an appointment, shouldn’t ya be meeting him at the visitor’s centre?” He asks, then peers up and down the hallway. “And where’s your escort guard?”

Rage swells within him when he barks, “Don’t question me! Just do as I say!”

The guard shrinks back. 

“One last time, _ take me to Lester Nygaard. _ ”

The guard nods. He presses the elevator button and the two wait in silence. A couple of guards walk passed them while they wait for the doors to open. They glance at their fellow guard and to his plain-clothed company, but do not interact with them. When the elevator is thankfully empty when it arrives. Antoine steps inside, only to sigh once more when his guard does not follow. 

“Jesus Christ. Do I really have to spell it out for you? Let’s go to the registry so you can find Lester Nygaard.”

He stands with his arms crossed beside the guard as the elevator lowers. It seems there are some technical aspects of his powers that he still needs to understand. An order only seems to be successful if they are actually  _ able  _ to follow through, regardless of the ferocity of his command. Interesting, then, when his own master’s instructions had been so vague. This is exactly why he needs Mac on his side; so that he can test every question he has about himself on someone else. The very prospect of doing so motivates him through this tedious part of his task. 

The elevator stops on floor 3, revealing another stale corridor. The guard shows Antoine down the corridor toward presumably where this registry is located. From there, the level fills out with offices and what seems to be small manufacturing rooms, filled with more and more personnel. Annoyingly, they are stopped by other guards a number of times. His guard tries to explain, at first unsure, but after several times of Antoine stepping in to reinforce why they should be granted permission to continue, his guard becomes more and more sure of himself. Dennis knows that his brainwashing is in full effect when the guard is able to clear the rest of the staff from a restricted area computer room. 

The guard sits down at the nearest desktop computer. Antoine hovers over him, aware of the security camera’s red light blinking overhead, but comforted by the lack of personnel. 

After a few minutes, Antoine taps his guard on the shoulder and asks him, “Have you found Nygaard’s number yet?”

At that moment, someone hangs their head through the door and says, “Yo Brotzman, you wanna - hey you’re not - what’re you doing here?” He finishes, stepping into the room. 

The guard at the computer blinks at the screen. It seems that after some time of silence between himself and the guard, the puppet seems to have become somewhat immune to the brainwashing. The guard stammers, “I’m…I’m… What  _ am  _ I doing?”

Antoine pipes up with what Dennis thinks would be the most believable lie. “My hot new receptionist - and I mean  _ hot _ . I’m telling you boys, she’s got killer jugs. Just  _ enormous _ , you wouldn’t believe it. Anyway. I’m afraid she didn’t prepare my case with my client’s prison identification number. You know how it is, bigger tits than brains.”

Antoine laughs boisterously, encouraging the other two to laugh, however, the guard who just stepped in trails off quickly. 

“Alrighty, but you shouldn’t be in here. It’s a restricted area.”

Antoine scrunches his nose at the guard. He strengthens the inflection of his speech, “Go away and  _ don't  _ bother us.”

The guard responds, “Sorry to bother you,” then promptly leaves.

Chuffed, Antoine lifts his chin. This microphone that’s inside him, the thing that makes people do what he wants them to do is  _ better _ than the illusion of power. It’s power without effort. In fact, Dennis should be riding on a glorious high with how easily he can make these fools believe the flimsiest of lies, and yet… There’s no one around to appreciate him. No one to admire how clever he is, to laugh with him at how gullible these idiots are, no Mac or Charlie to tell him how amazing he is. He…. he supposes he misses that, but it frustrates him that he craves the attention, the validation. It’s like being Don Chumph in Duluth all alone, all over again.

Except this time he’s not going to make the mistake of going back home to see that that gang was getting along just fine without him. No. Mac, for whatever reason, needs Dennis to be in love with him. So for now, Dennis can privately relish his prowess in pretending to be Antoine and bestow people with orders fueled by ferocity to match the molten cores of a thousand earthlike planets!!!

“Ah-ha, found him! I know which cell he’s in,” The guard announces. 

Antoine claps him on the shoulder. “About time! Let’s go.”

“Do you want to go to his -- do you want to --”  The guard chokes up, unable to finish his question so changes it to a statement, “I’ll ring him up to the visitor’s centre.”

“That’ll take too long,” Antoine says, “Take me straight to him.”

“Alright.”

  
  


 

The deeper he ventures through the prison labyrinth, the more lost he becomes as the guard takes him through endless corridors and hidden flights of stairs and cell chamber checkpoints and at least he’s with someone who knows where he needs to go otherwise he would become violent… Something which is increasingly becoming difficult considering the sheer quantity of prisoners and guards alike compacted into the prison. It’s mind blowing compared to how desolate the place had appeared from above to know that in reality, the prison is swarming with flesh bodies. Milling and raving and fighting and waiting to die. It’s almost impossible for Dennis to hold himself back. He can smell their blood smothering his nose, the scent of every single body igniting the visceral salivating desire to shred anyone he comes into contact with to pieces. Even his guard. He’ll reach their heart and suck the muscle dry so that the veins hang loose amongst blood drenched strands of muscle tissue and hair, and then he’ll lick the blood off that too. 

And yet, he finds that he cannot succumb to the action no matter how detailed his imagination. Rather, each time he tries to pop his fangs out, that repulsive retch returns, akin to the way his sister would retch in anxiety. It’s more than an illness, more than guilt. It makes him feel like he’s going to die. 

_ You will not satiate your hunger on anyone. _

The words echo in his mind and Dennis is unsure if it’s a memory or his master sending him a message again. Nevertheless, he realises now that those words had been more than plain instructions. It was a spell, a manipulation like the kind Dennis had been placing on the guards to get through the facility. Had he been tricked? Is he even doing this ‘mission’ by choice? But no, going by how Dennis has to consistently re-brainwash his guard, the effectiveness of those orders must only be temporary. He’s been able to figure out that much. And if it hasn’t worn off by the time he’s finished here, he can just ask Malvo to undo the order. After all, his master is going to be so  _ impressed _ by him. 

Presently, the guard stops in front of a solid door midway down a corridor. More doors, evenly spaced, line the two walls facing opposite each other. In front of each door is a pin-pad with a small screen displaying the interior of the cell.

“There wasn’t a faster way to get here?” Antoine complains. 

The guard types in a code. The door automatically opens to reveal the inside of a tiny chamber with one light bulb strung from the ceiling and a very small man slouched on a cement block.

During his descent into the prison, Dennis hadn’t really put much thought to who Lester might be. He’d only assumed that if his master wanted someone procured from a maximum security prison, then he’d be like any other crazy-eyed, bald headed, scar-riddled prisoner. Yet when he walks into the cell and sees just who Lester Nygaard is supposed to be, he’s absolutely dumbfounded. 

“ _ You’re _ Lester Nygaard?” Antoine says, pointing at his supposed client. 

“Ya, I’m Lester Nygaard,” He replies, annoyed. 

“ _ You _ ?” Dennis laughs, “You’re so…  _ small _ ! You’re just a… a weenie little bitch!”

Lester crosses his arms. “Ya, okay, and who are you meant to be?”

“He’s your lawyer,” The guard pipes up from behind Dennis. 

Antoine turns and hisses at the guard, “Don’t speak for me, you insolent fool!”

The guard shrinks back into the corridor. 

“What in the heck - you’re not my lawyer. I’ve never seen you before!” Lester exclaims, his voice an octave higher. 

“I am your lawyer,” Antoine insists, “You’re getting out today. Come on, let’s do this quick.” 

He lunges forward and grabs Lester by the arm. Lester tries to twist away and edges into the corner, making himself as small as possible. It’s a bad move because Dennis can then corner him. 

“Help!” Lester cries. 

“Whoa!” The guard suddenly shouts from out in the corridor. He runs into the cell with his hand on his taser, then does a full double take when he sees Antoine cornering Lester. “How did you - you don’t show up on the camera!”

“Cuff him!” 

The guard obeys, pulling out a zip tie and forcing Lester into it. Antoine then tells the guard to show them out. 

Lester wriggles and protests, testing Dennis’ patience. “Who is this? Who wants me out? Is it Fargo?”

“Fargo? Wha - what’s Fargo got to do with this?”

“I never asked for Fargo to get rid of my life sentence! I don’t want to play their games! I don’t want to owe them anything!”

“It’s not Fargo, je-”

“You’re lying! O, God! Where are you taking me?!”

“Jesus, would you shut up?” Dennis snaps. “Malvo will-”

Lester gasps. “Malvo - did you say? Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. Malvo - he can’t - it’s not possible! I saw him on TV. They showed me. They said, they said on the TV that Lorne got shot. Shot dead! That’s what they said! O, jeez! Did he arrange this before? O ya, but ya know, he’s a dead man now. Ya don’t have to do what a dead man wishes!”

Dennis stops. He yanks Lester by the shoulder and looks right in his eyes. “ _ Shut up. _ ”

Lester glares at him for a moment, then says, “How much did he pay you? Fargo or Malvo or whoever. How much?”

“Why isn’t this working?” Dennis says more to himself. 

Dennis considers for a moment that maybe Lester is a vampire as well, but it wouldn’t make any sense. Besides, he couldn’t smell Malvo whereas he can smell Lester. Lester looks plain but he smells delicious, and yet the same tactics Dennis has used on others isn’t working on Lester. Maybe he should just tase the man and -  _ unharmed.  _

Another carefully spoken instruction by his master… 

_ You are going to find a way in to extract Lester Nygaard from his prison cell, then bring him to me. Unharmed. _

“Ya, okay. Cash? Did he pay you in cash? What d’ya say we take it all and bail. 50/50? 40/60, your way! I know a place in North Dakota. It’s real nice. A pal of mine, he’s got a lakehouse. We can hide out there until it’s safe to split ways. What d’ya say?”

Dennis tries to tell him to shut up again, yelling this time, but Lester is not deterred. 

“That doesn’t take your fancy? Hoookay. It’s the lakehouse, isn’t it? I can tell. You’re a beach kinda guy, eh? I can arrange that. I can make that happen. ‘Course, we’d have to spend a bit of that cash, huh. We’d have to put some money down on a beach house and oh ya, we can hold off payin’ anymore rent for a few months. It’s been done. I know what kinda lies get you through it. And by the time they’ll be hounding at our door, we’ll be gone. Parted ways, of course. They won’t know where to look. We’ll be safe that way. How about it?”

“ _ Stop talking, Lester _ ,” Dennis says, trying to be more specific.

“...I’m not the worst person in here, neither. Look, all I’ve got on my hands is one dead wife, by my hand! And maybe, ya know, if you were my lawyer, you should bring up in court that I’m the hand for Linda too, ya know? I coulda shot her, I was there! They got tire track evidence or whatnot. They pinned it on Malvo on account of her wearing my jacket but I coulda staged it that way, ya know? I framed Malvo once I coulda done it twice. I just, you gotta see what ya can do for me here. It’s safer in here, I’d say. O ya, much safer.”

Dennis decides it’s best to ignore him.

During the long wind back to the surface level, Dennis, as Antoine, commands the people around him adeptly like a god. He gets a thrill out of watching their reactions, and Lester’s too. One moment Lester is marching with his shoulders squared and his hands tied behind his back and the next his pudgy, gnomish face scrunches up and his eyes dart looking for an escape. How amusing it is to see how confused he is by the power Dennis holds. Dennis wouldn’t call it endearing, but there is something positively entertaining about watching Lester react to his environment - something how Dennis’ raised voice can both frighten and enrage him, how Antoine’s determined stalk can both earn a rise out of Lester and make his small little legs run. Then, it occurs to Dennis, that Malvo might want Lester for the same reason why Dennis wants Mac - as a plaything. 

Well, they’re not so dissimilar after all. 

Finally, the guard, Lester and Antoine are on the threshold of the last checkpoint to pass. The elevator alarm chimes and the doors slide open to reveal the crisp white above ground room. Immediately, the receptionist jumps to his feet and the two guards adjacent the elevator back up with their weapons aimed at the trio in the elevator. Lester cowers behind Dennis as Antoine raises a hand, facing his palm toward the nearest guard and commanding him and the other to lower their weapons. He then makes the two guards and the receptionist go into the elevator and get as far away from them as possible, knowing that putting some distance between them will help when the order starts to wear off.

He pauses before exiting the building, riding a thrilling wave that makes his heart pound and his stomach rumble for more. He’s  _ never _ felt more powerful in his entire life. Mac couldn’t even  _ imagine  _ being as badass as Dennis. That thought itself sends a shiver down Dennis’ spine. He absolutely cannot  _ wait  _ to relinquish Lester from his custody so that he can play with Mac. They could start a cult where people worship him, although Dennis could already do that without vampire manipulation skills. He could try for something more ambitious and try and take over the world!

He laughs at the thought as he passes through the door. Lester walks passed him and stands out of the shade under the doorstep, sunlight catching the silver in his blond hair. Without even thinking about it, Dennis steps forward into the sun, only to recoil when the light instantly starts to make his skin burn, actual smoke rising from where the light had met his exposed wrists.

He snarls in the shade. Lester peers out over the concrete, fidgeting with his constraints tying his hands behind his back. 

When the initial shock from being burnt subsides, Dennis straightens and calls out over the expanse of bright light. “I got him!”

Lester shrinks back into the shade, trying to make himself small behind the guard. He stammers, “Please don’t take me - please don’t!”

Dennis edges away from the gross gremlin, making sure to keep in the shade. He calls out again, “I got him out! Didn’t expect me to be so fast?!” 

He waits impatiently for a response, then tries to reply in his mind, the way his master speaks to him.  _ I’m done _ . 

He waits again. The warmth of the sun reaching him even in the shadows.

Still no response. 

“He should be here,” Dennis mutters, “Where is he?”

Both Malvo  _ and  _ Mac should be here, but if Mac really had run off never to return, then Malvo could just steal another car like he had so easily done at the crematorium. Maybe Malvo is off trying to bring Mac back? But he would have kept Dennis in the loop, right? He would’ve known to check in with Dennis. That’s how you run successful schemes!

Dennis balls his fists. He worked so hard to get this imbecile out of prison and  _ this  _ is how his master repays him? By not even being out front with a car ready to escape in? 

He turns around. He pushes Lester against the sign, plastic clattering between cotton and cement, and Dennis curves a hand around Lester’s neck, tightly curling his fingers behind Lester’s ear and pulls his head to one side and -- he chokes. He stumbles backward, leaving Lester to claw at his throat, and Dennis to fight back wrenching out bile from his dry stomach. 

Suddenly, painfully loud sirens begin to whine. Dennis clamps his hands over his ears.

“God damn it! What is that?!”

Red lights start spinning all over the courtyard painting the white expanse in an alarming wash of crimson. Dennis can hear shouting coming from a level beneath accompanied with the cocking of guns and numerous footsteps dashing across the floor.

“O jeez! O jeez!” Lester cries. 

“This is the first time… I’ve only done drills for when a prisoner escapes! What do I do?!”

At that moment, Lester practically throws himself at the door they had just exited, only to have Dennis pull him off. 

“I need to get out of here!” Dennis yells. 

Lester kicks so violently that Dennis has to lean backward, Lester’s feet actually lifting off the ground. He looks at the shaded walkway and follows the black strip to the rectangle cut into the bright space. He starts moving toward it, beckoning his guard to follow. 

“Do you know how to hotwire a car?”  

“No, sir!”

Dennis wrangles Lester around him, wincing every time Lester manages to kick him with the back of his heel. “Do I have to do everything around here?!”

This is not how he thought it would go down at all. That said, he didn’t really think about the end of the mission since going in was so easy. And yet here he is, unable to get off on the success of an impossible yet completed mission because there’s no one around to appreciate him, and within the next few minutes he may be shot to pieces, _again._ And, worse,  if he can’t keep Lester safe, Malvo might never teach him how to make humans into vampires. _And_ , on top of that, he’s _starving_. If he didn’t feel replsively ill, he would absolutely turn around and murder anyone who tries to get close to him, which would be unbelievably badass and unfortunately yet another instance in which nobody worthy enough would be around to witness it.

Mac would definitely know how to react to something like that. 

Instead, he’s punching a single fist through a double tinted reinforced car window with only a little bit of satisfaction when both the guard and Lester marvel at his strength. Blood spills on his sleeve as he hot wires the car, all the while the car alarm and the prison alarms are ringing, foot soldiers stamp toward them and the sounds of bullets ping off the asphalt. When the engine roars to life, Dennis vows to himself that he’ll never let anyone dupe him again. No, no one is going to tell him to break someone out of prison without payment  _ first _ .

And, more importantly, he won’t let Mac make anymore grand claims that the only reason Dennis kept Mac alive was because Dennis is in love with him, because, ladies and gentlemen, that is  _ far _ from the truth. Seeing as Malvo seems to want to make this difficult, Dennis will use Lester as bait to make Malvo get mac back to him, and then he’ll make all three of them feel the pain they  _ deserve _ for trying to make a fool out of Dennis Reynolds. 


	27. Susurrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the chapter in which Dennis Treats Himself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this chapter is very long (7k) and dialogue heavy and i'm really sorry about that! i tried to split it up but i felt like the two parts weren't strong enough on their own. it reads better as one chapter i think. hope you like how the story is progressing!)

Dennis lays down in the backseat behind the guard, and pins Lester in place with his feet keeping the man pressed into the corner of the seat. With Dennis’ feet on Lester’s arm and thigh, he is unable to clack his seatbelt into place before Dennis makes the guard drive the car through the gate without waiting for the barricade to rise. Lester’s head whacks against the window at the same time that Dennis feels his stomach clench, making it difficult for him to jolt out of the way of the sunlight pouring in from the smashed window. 

“Where are we going?!” Lester cries, cradling his head.  

“That’s what I want to know!” The guard pipes up. 

“Somewhere safe, you idiots! Somewhere where  _ they _ -” Dennis gestures behind him, “Can’t find us!”

“You’re insane!” Lester wails. 

“I know a place!” The guard offers, “In the city - there’s an area where police can’t go, but I wouldn’t call it safe, it’s more-”

“What the hell are you talking about? Get to the point!!” 

“This place - I heard they kill cops on sight - I’m just a prison guard but there’s still a risk that I could be-”

“Well obviously I don’t care about you,” Dennis says impatiently, “I care about me.  _ I’m  _ only safe if I get this prisoner to my mast- to my boss, okay?! So take me to this goddamn cop-free zone.”

“I’m going to get in so much trouble!”

“I don’t care, I just need to  _ go  _ there,  _ now _ ! That’s what my boss said! Take Lester somewhere safe,” Dennis says, feeling his face become red and slick with sweat. “That’s what I was  _ told _ .”

He shrinks down into the leather seat, crosses his arms, and  _ fumes _ . Can’t they just understand his instruction and follow it without question?! Why are northern people so stupid?! At least he’ll be able to tell the guard to go away fairly easily - he’s been under his control for the last hour or so, so there shouldn’t be any issues with making the guard leave Dennis’ sight for all eternity. As for Lester… The sooner he can be rid of this pathetic worm, the sooner he can start his new life as an eternal vampire. The sooner, the better. 

Amidst helping the driver take the most direct route possible despite the police roaming the city, Dennis hangs on the thought of stepping on Lester and imagining how it would feel so absolutely effortless to crush him, to snap his frail body and hear it snap like brittle styrofoam, the annoying squeaky noise in tow. Oh how easy it would be to make him shut up, if he could. 

Strangely enough,the guard is correct about a single street being devoid of any police. Even as they weave toward it, not one siren can be heard whirring down that street, whilst others, including the flock from the prison, disperse down the adjacent streets. It’s curious, but Dennis doesn’t question it because he doesn’t particularly care why, he just wants to make use of a sanctuary that holds true when the police hot on their tail fall back the moment they glide onto the long street. 

“Pull over!” Dennis orders his guard. 

The guard pulls into a no-stopping zone, angling a shaft of light through the broken window and into the back seat. Dennis scoots away from it. He curses, then commands everyone to be quiet. Lester doesn’t listen and attempts to scream for help, shuffling to move his back against the side of the car so that he can mash his tiny fisted hands against the window. Dennis scowls at the unfortunate sight of the man’s pink and tear-wetted face, at the way his hands make Uncle Jack’s look regular sized.

He pulls one leg over his knee and makes the mistake of lifting his broken hand first. His shattered fingers bump against his shoes and serve to only splatter blood and flecks of flesh onto the brown leather. He cradles his hand in his lap and uses his best to slide off the loafer, pull off the sushi printed sock and slip the shoe back on his bare foot. He then carefully inches around the shaft of light to shove the sock into Lester’s wanting mouth. Really, he should have done this earlier. Lester then shifts his efforts away from the window to trying to dislodge the sock from his throat, and with some deserved silence in the car, Dennis soaks in the sounds of his surrounds.

The street is just like any other street in Philly’s more popping areas. There are loads of people on the sidewalk carrying coffees and hot food and laptops and briefcases full of paper. Curiously, he can see more people out the tinted window than the amount of hearts he can hear. And those of the blood maps he can smell, don’t smell good, or bad. They just… smell, faintly, as if they’re barely human. Less than half of the people on the street actually smell enticing but their distinct delicious scent follows an odd pattern of movement. That is, they flock onto this street from outer streets and beeline around a single spot on the sidewalk. After congregating for a few minutes, they then scamper across the road without a care for their safety, and plunge themselves into what looks like an enormous mall. 

Dennis stares at the mouth of Stussy Supermall, a red carpet rolled out of the double-doored entranceway like a tongue. Pristine teeth glisten, showing off gold and silver wares in the front windows, mannequins sport designer fashion, and a neon sign boasts luxury hotel rooms above the mall. The only thing that mars the shopfront is a greasy, short looking man leaning against the wall beside the doorway, earphones plugged in and stringing underneath his shirt, and a sour, bored look on his face. Loud music emanates from behind him, overpowering the beats from his earplugs. Behind him, Dennis can only just skim the sounds of what’s occurring within the mall. Shopping bags rustling and cash registers dinging and many, many footsteps and incoherent chatter. 

There’s undoubtedly something different about this place, and the people here. It’s as if Dennis has entered a new realm, a new planet inside the city of Minneapolis - one worth exploring, and conquering. 

Dennis thinks about who he is, or who he’ll be. Shall he continue to be Antoine, or discard him? Or let himself remain unknown until a situation requires a persona to resurface? Whatever he decides, he’ll like to no longer keep himself cooped inside another car for a second longer. Yes, he’ll go out on the street, and if it is indeed safe, he’ll find a bathroom or a store room to lock Lester in until his master decides to show his face. Until the latter, he’ll submit to enjoying himself!

“I need to stretch my legs,” Dennis says. “Guard, get me something to protect me from the sun!”

The guard returns quickly with a kid’s black and yellow bumblebee umbrella, much to Dennis’ dismay. Luckily, the distance from the car to the shaded sidewalk is a short enough distance that being sighted holding the garish printed umbrella won’t matter too much. He clutches the handle and instantly takes refuge in the shade, then hands the umbrella back to the guard and makes his puppet cover Lester as he topples out of the car.

Dennis doesn’t trust the guard to keep Lester from running away, so he instructs the guard to stay in the car while they’re gone. 

“For how long?” The guard asks. 

“Didn’t I tell you not to ask questions?”

Dennis moves on.

He holds the open umbrella in front of Lester so as to mask his face, and places his non-broken hand against Lester’s spine to push him in the direction Dennis wants to go. If anyone turns their head to look at Lester as Dennis guides the two of them through the crowded sidewalk, nobody bats an eye. He honestly expects at least  _ someone _ to accuse him of being a kidnapper or a terrorist or something of the like, but literally nobody cares. It’s as if it’s a regular occurence to see a man with his hands tied behind his back and a bloody sock in his mouth being pushed around at lunchtime. 

Yeah, totally normal, but it’s also part of the charm. As if Dennis is having an affect on the people around him, as if they’re listening to his true desire to just find somewhere to securely leave Lester. His godly feelings expire quickly when he runs into his first spot of trouble. He realises that he can barely move through the crowd moving the opposindirection because no one seems to listen to his pleads for them to make way, god damn it! He ends up getting stuck in their flow which interrupts him from thinking about his next step - where he could logically stow a living human for a long period of time without anyone asking questions. And third, he becomes painfully aware of just how ravenously hungry he is. 

It’s as if the whole population of Minneapolis is on this one street, walking up and down on either side and being out in the open proves what he had deduced in the car - there’s a hell of a lot more people here than he can actually hear. And hardly any of them smell as good as Lester does. Worse, the crowd compacts all bodies into close proximity, to the effect that it’s becoming harder and harder for Dennis to fight off the urge to just snatch his mouth around the back of Lester’s pale neck and suck. Each time he gets a little bit closer to entertaining that fantasy, the gurgling sickness repels him, but the smell of Lester’s blood is nearly too much for him to handle. 

He needs a distraction. 

As if the crowd  _ is _ listening to him somehow, the current of them pulls him to the concentration of people further along the sidewalk. Oh yes, it’s quite a distraction from Lester. He feels inexplicably drawn to it, to the pulsing hearts that congregate there, and his tongue coiling as each stray bolts across the street and into the mall.

He clings to the perimeter of the crowd there, who too crowd around a fold out table with a white cloth draped over the top. A young woman is kneeling on a plastic chair as she delivers a mantra and is handing out fliers wrapped around thick wads of… cash. Dennis can hear it; the woman repeating her little speech like a spell, enthralling the listeners with a promise and then digging through a briefcase to count hundred dollar bills. From there she wraps a flier around each bundle and hands them out to eager takers after telling them sweetly - as sweetly as one can in a minnesotan accent - “Don’t forget the meeting at 2pm! You’ll double what ya have there if you attend.”

Dennis draws closer. 

The scent of the crowd fumigates his nasal tracts, all except for the girl. He gazes upon her. She’s a blonde, nice but kitsch 80s side-swept fringe, the length of it meeting the swell in her tits. She wears a tan leather shaggy-sleeved jacket over a short floral dress, and black knee-high boots. Green eye-shadowed eyes flutter butterfly kisses beneath her fringe as she hands out free money. A pair of identical twins are stationed behind her, still as statues. Dennis can barely tell that they are in fact alive, no heartbeat signature from them, no smell either. They’re mannequins. 

Lester starts to fidget, earning Dennis’ attention for a moment, but all that he pays mind to is the blood pumping in Lester’s veins where his fingers try to pick at the chains.

Sickness swells, and subsides. 

He pushes to the front of the stand, trying to keenly hear the girl’s heart beating or smell anything but her strong perfume, and he can do nothing in comparison to Lester’s. He might have enjoyed this genuine human interaction if it weren’t for the fact that not being able to smell her means that his smell is deflected off her and has hyperfixated on Lester. On the blood that he  _ can _ hear and like a predator zoning in on his prey, the urge to pounce becomes overpowering. The sickness swells, and swells more, and coats his throat inside and sticks to him like static on his outside. His determination not to hurt Lester pops along with all other measures to keep his body and mind together. His nose starts to bleed, blood dripping out of his ears, his eye sockets too. His broken hand aches with pain, his stomach feels like its eating its way out of his throat, and he so badly wants to end Lester. Or the loud people around him, their hearts and blood pounding just as loud, never as quiet as the girl’s. He snorts and sees red and fires from hell lick his heels and if he cannot end anyone, he’ll end himself. 

“Honey… hey.” 

Her accent reminds Dennis of where on earth he is. 

“Why aren’t you healing your hand?” She asks, leaning over the table to take Dennis’ broken hand in her soft palm. A slit in her dress shows a swell of her breast and Dennis doesn’t feel so sick anymore. 

He relays much of his weight onto Lester, who stumbles forward under the weight and buffs Dennis’ ego with the idea that Lester might find him too heavy and fat. Nevertheless, Lester is the one to make a fool of himself by knocking the table, causing some fliers to flit away and the briefcase to fall to the ground. 

The girl’s eyes dart to the briefcase, as does all eyes in proximity. 

“NOBODY MOVE,” She bellows. 

One of the statues behind the girl breaks form and calmly collects the briefcase. The crowd remains still, all except Lester, though Dennis would feel compelled to move if he hadn’t been so enthralled by the trance the crowd had suddenly submitted to. The twin rights the table and tidies the tablecloth and sets the briefcase securely on the surface, then almost fits himself back to position if it weren’t for the girl tugging the sleeve of his trench coat. 

“Should I not?” She asks him. 

The twin bends down to whisper in her ear, “It’s fine. He can be charmed twice.”

The other twin steps from his post, his identical trench coat fanning out, and he whisper in the girl’s other ear, “He’s just like any other, Simone. Show him the way.”

Simone nods and the twins return to their stoic positions. 

As she collects some cash in a flier bundle, the crowd around Dennis begins to become rowdy again. 

“Take this-” She says, stepping on foot off her chair to lean forward and tuck the bundle into the large pocket on Lester’s prison garb. “-And your pet into the mall. There’s a man with a plan there who can help you.”

Dennis blinks away blood streaming from his tear ducts. 

“You’ll feel better,” She says with a flirtatious wink that Dennis can barely see, “Promise.”

Dennis pulls Lester backwards out of the crowd, his vision becoming blackened red. He tries wiping his eyes with his sleeve. It doesn’t matter that his clothes are still too blood drenched because clearing his eyes only lasts for half a second before his eyes well up with blood again. He grips onto Lester’s shoulders, knowing by now not to grip too hard but needing to take hold because he can no longer see. 

“Lead us back to the car,” He tells Lester sternly. 

 

 

 

Dennis wasn’t going to just do what some bitch told him to do, but unfortunately he had no other options but to investigate the mall when he had returned to where his guard had parked the car, only to find that it was no longer there. It tells him that he was right to judge the guard as untrustworthy. It tells him that no one can possibly give him the help he wants except for Malvo. Dennis didn’t believe what that woman said anyway - that someone could help him. No, he needed Malvo to actually teach him how to make others do what he wanted because it’s not working anymore, or it’s not working long enough and Dennis doesn’t know how to make it permanent. No one can help with that except the bastard who made him this way. Also, Dennis has been courting women long enough to know not to trust a blonde, least not one ranking higher than an eight. 

What’s left is his natural charisma and the money that patronising bitch so carelessly gave away, and he’ll have to make do with that. Covered in blood. Shaking with rage for what the guard had done. Yet another person had left him. Abandoned him. Ruined his plans. The crowd seemed to thin out because they feared him. Lester becomes more malleable to move, probably remembering how badly Dennis can hurt him. 

He moves by ear and feel. A sheet of red still covering his eyes. He discards his bumblebee umbrella after crossing the street and meets with the shade. He can hear the loud music of the bored doorman he had seen earlier, which tells him that he’s right in front of the entrance to the mall. A plush carpet is palpable beneath his shoes. 

“I’m going to book a room,” He whispers into Lester’s ear. “Take me to the front desk.”

Lester squirms. Dennis tightens his grip on the man’s shoulders. 

“Do as I say or I’ll snap your neck. Do you want that? No, you don’t, because I’ll do it very slowly. I’ll make sure you feel every bone snap and you’ll feel the exact moment that your jugular pierces, and you’ll feel the blood pour inside you, pulling the weight of your neck down and then i’ll slice your skin and it will fountain out amongst the bones and muscle tissue and you won’t be able to do anything to stop me.”

Lester swallows harshly against the sock in his mouth. He moves forward and Dennis follows. 

Within moments, the temperature around him changes. It’s no longer the summer warmth from outside, but a thrum of air conditioning blasting cool air all around him. He can hear the clack of their shoes on the marble floors, can smell the rich notes of the wood in the desk Lester takes him to, can taste his own blood on his lips and it tastes like steel. 

Lester pokes Dennis in the stomach with one finger. 

“Is this the front desk?” Dennis asks Lester.

“Yep,” A man responds. He sounds either bored or pompous. Dennis crinkles his nose. 

“Well, look at me!” Dennis says, slamming his fist on the desk, “I need a room, immediately!” 

The man at the desk dramatically sighs. “We’re booked out.”

“I WAS TOLD-”

“Alexi, did you know there’s a sticky note on here?” A woman asks shrilly from somewhere that Dennis cannot see. She sounds older, her voice husky. 

The man at the desk swivels around on his chair and calls back, “Pardon me, Madame Goldfarb?”

The woman saunters over, her thin heels piercing the floor and a large coat sweeping behind her. “There was a note on the cardboard - it says, ‘get an extra 1k just for showing up!’ - is this Simone’s doing?”

The man at the desk shrugs. “Probably.”

“Oh, she’s very clever,” she laughs, now rounding the front desk, “He won’t be happy with that, but frankly neither am I. I'm quite sick of construction noises, and that racket is - Ah!” She yelps. “Darling! I thought something smelled off. You look like you’ve come back from the war!!”

Dennis huffs, attempting to clear his eyes again but with no luck. “I’m trying to book a room. The window said there were vacancies for the luxury suites,” Dennis tells her, his face becoming hot with rage. “This man here is telling me there are none which is false advertising!”

“None for-” the man is cut off by the woman. 

“Oh, of course there are vacancies! Alexi, book this gentleman a room immediately!”

“But Mr Varga said-”

“ _ Alexi, _ ” She coos, “Do I really have to remind everyone who has the real power here? Nevermind what my son wants.  _ I  _ want this gentleman bedded and robed with everything we have to offer! Will that be a problem?”

Chair wheels slide over the ground, and keys on a keyboard are tapped rapidly before a key is procured. He can hear the single key jingling on a ring. Dennis instinctively goes to grab it with his right hand, only for his broken fingers to knock the key to the surface of the desk. 

“Mother Mary! Your hand!” The woman cries, taking Dennis’ hand into her palm. 

Unlike the girl from outside, this woman’s hand feels worn and leathery. He feels her fingers run over his broken ones, then, with his hand still in hers, she fishes out something from a pocket in her fur coat and asks the receptionist to unscrew the lid. He does, and moments later, Dennis feels a cool gel cover his hands. He feels his blood pumping, throbbing, It hurts more and less at the same time.

She slowly lowers his hand to his side and cups Dennis’ chin. She caresses his face, her fingers deathly cold. Then, the same gel covers his eyelids in a simple swipe of her thumbs. First he smells metal, then he can see. 

Her face is close. “You are young, are you not?” 

“I’m 34.”

She smiles and her whole face crinkles, her own age terribly showing. Her wrinkled fingers caress his cheek, then she lifts his lip with her pinkie and pokes his gum where his fangs would elongate from. 

Dennis flinches away. 

“Have you used them yet? Or don’t you know how?” She stands back, amused. Then, she bares her teeth, showing off her sharp fangs. “I can show you.”

At this, Lester shrinks and slides down the front of the counter until he’s sitting on the floor, back to the desk, eyes wide and mouth stuffed with sock. Dennis’ eyes follow the movement but he’s not really paying any attention to Lester, feeling suddenly very… exposed. 

“Madame Goldfarb, please, not in the foyer,” The receptionist urges. 

“Well, we’ll have to take this somewhere more appropriate,” Madamme Goldfarb replies tartly. She plucks the key from the desk and starts walking toward the elevator, her coat swishing out behind her. 

Dennis quickly recovers from his initial shock, and moves onto trying to contain a smile. He can work with this. She’s old, but he has successfully flirted with older women in the past. Hardly any woman can resist him. He yanks Lester to his feet and pulls him along as he catches up to Madame Goldfarb - a classy woman, by her name. 

The elevator lowers in the shaft. This time the only alarming noise is the rattling chains - no dozens of footsteps, no guns cocking and bullet cases emptying on the ground. No, he may not be able to really distinguish anyone from a chair behind walls and floors, but this place makes a man walking into a hotel covered in blood seem normal. He then imagines he’ll have no trouble keeping Lester locked in a room somewhere. 

The elevator arrives and there’s a bellhop inside with a platter of wine and other treats for offer. She holds the door open as the three of them enter the elevator. 

“So, you’re a vampire too?” Dennis asks, making idle conversation while the elevator lifts. 

“Oh yes, I am quite like you,” She replies. She takes a glass of wine from the platter and takes a sip. She nods at the neat bellhop in the corner of the space. “So is she. Are you surprised?”

Dennis raises his eyebrows. Lester cowers beside him. 

“There are many of us. My, you’ve found yourself in quite the right place. This is a wonderland made for us, by my son. He transformed this venue to suit our… needs.”

At that moment, Lester is somehow able to choke the sock out of his mouth. He blabbers, “There are more of you?!” 

When Madame Goldfarb replies, she speaks only to Dennis, as if addressing Lester would have been degrading. “Of course. Plenty.” She pauses, looking at the female vampire in the corner of the elevator. “Can you tell me how many vampires are currently here - oh, what’s your name again?”

“Bellhop,” she replies. 

Dennis almost laughs. 

“No, your name, dear one, not your position. Your human name.”

The bellhop thinks for a moment. “I can’t recall.”

Madame Goldfarb rolls her eyes. “What has my son done? Nevertheless, tell our guest here just how many - dear me, I haven’t properly introduced myself to you, how shameful! My name is Ruby Goldfarb. And yours?”

“Antoine.”

She waits. 

“...Oh you want to know my surname?” Dennis falters remembering what it was exactly, so he supplies, “Reynolds.”

“Antoine Reynolds,” She smiles, “Pleasure to meet you. Well, you can treat yourself to our spas-”

“-Oh is it Turkish Bath style? I only do Turkish Bath spas. It’s truly an erotic experience irreplaceable by regular spa traditions.”

Ruby crinkles her brow at being interrupted. A wry smile remains on her face. “I only mentioned it because, now, I’m not afraid to call a spade-” She pauses, glancing over her company. “-That’s a saying.”

“I know what it means,” Dennis replies, fully aware that Antoine has dried blood all over him. 

Ruby tuts. “Francis Bacon said, for cleanness of body was ever esteemed to proceed from a due reverence to God, to society, and to ourselves. He means, we should wash. We must adhere to it while we walk on God’s earth, don’t you think?” 

Presently, the elevator stops to open the doors upon a couple of unscented people - vampires - who take one look at the occupants of the elevator and step away. Dennis would like to think it’s the sheer force of his presence that intimidated the pair to back down, yet their eyes had met only with Ruby’s, and had cast downward like they had met reverence. For a woman, she certainly has some power around here. 

With the pair of vampires in the hallway bowing away, Lester sees an opportunity to escape and tries to run out, only to be yanked back inside by Dennis catching hold of his collar. The elevator doors shut and the ride resumes.

“Darling, you must look out for him. If you take an eye off your human, someone else might have him for dinner.”

“Oh that can’t happen,” Dennis explains, “I have strict orders on that. Very strict. No harm will come to him.”

He raises his eyebrows again. She nods her head in understanding. She knows more than the ins and outs of this mall. Yes, Dennis thinks, she certainly knows more than she’s letting on. Perhaps if he can woo her, he can learn from her what his master won’t teach. 

Lester, desperate to evade the two vampires confined in this shared space, tries to jump to catch the safety latch on the ceiling of the elevator, but is too short to reach, and ends up bumping into Ruby when he lands his jump. This earns him a shove, one that makes Dennis retch when Lester slams against the mirrored wall of the elevator. 

“What a God-awful sound,” Ruby comments.

Dennis claws at his throat. “I can’t help it. He’s so god damn annoying. All I’ve wanted to do for the last two hours is rip his throat out but I -- well I guess I don’t know how. I had, uh, someone who was meant to teach me but I’d much rather learn from a stunning lady like yourself.”

She throws her head back and laughs. A wicked laugh that hurts Dennis’ ego. The bellhop stops the elevator and holds the door open. Ruby waves at her in thanks, then turns her back to Dennis and Lester. “Please, child, enjoy what we have to offer her. I doubt you won’t find something to your liking.” 

“But I already found something I like - you.”

Ruby leaves his key on the platter before stepping onto her floor. “Oh I feel like I’m in 1843! Ta for now.”

Lester hangs paralysed in the elevator, unsure whether to run out and risk bumping Ruby on his way passed, or remaining in the elevator. 

“You know what room I’m in!” Dennis calls out. The ride resumes once more. “1843… There are almost  _ two thousand _ rooms here and they weren’t going to give me one?!”

“There are 493 hotel rooms open to guests,” The bellhop replies.

“Right, so… 1843… Holy shit! Does she mean she  _ remembers  _ 1843? She’s been alive for 200 years?!”

“Incorrect. Madame Goldfarb has spent 778 years as a vampire, however, her true amount of time spent on this earth is approximately 830 years.”

“What the shit…” Dennis breathes. 

“Aw, what the heck is going on?!” Lester cries exasperatedly, “I must be in Hell!”

Dennis rolls his eyes. “How long until my floor?”

“We have arrived at your floor, sir.”

Dennis grabs onto Lester’s collar, ready to take control if he tries to run or kick. 

“Did they tell you to speak like a robot or something?” Dennis asks her on his way out, “You could at least make yourself sound like a sexy robot.”

He wrangles Lester down the hall. He has to cover Lester’s mouth with his bad hand, not caring that Lester tries to bite into it because it’s his loss really, and it only stings now anyway. Whatever Goldfarb had used on his hand earlier is really working like magic to heal his wounds. 

Finally he reaches his suite and keys into it. He shoves Lester inside. He only gets a quick glimpse at the room - it’s nice, could be nicer - then he yanks the door shut and locks Lester inside. He flips the ‘do not disturb’ sign over and leans against the door, heaving a sigh of relief. The expanse of the corridor fills out either side of him, filling him with a sense of calm. It’s so quiet. He can barely hear anything beyond the other doors, can hear absolutely nothing underneath the deep red carpet or above the carved wooden ceiling. It’s as if, finally, he can live. 

Dennis unfurls the remaining cash from the flier and pockets the change in his new trousers. He looks at the flier. It reads;

_ Are you scared of the world ending? Are you aware of the rising seas, the winters too cold and the summers too hot? Of the increase of droughts, frosts, hurricanes, tsunamis, earthquakes and landslides? Do you think this threatens all life on Earth? Meet the man with a plan on level 5.  _

Dennis crumples the flier and tosses it to the ground. 

Lester starts banging on the door behind him, making his head loll on his neck. Dennis pushes off the door and walks down the hallway back toward the elevator. It opens before he reaches it and a maid exits, pushing a cleaning cart along in front of her. She greets Dennis joyously, her eyes not faltering in kindness despite the loud banging and shouting emanating from his hotel room. That’s how it should be. That’s how Dennis likes it. Oh yes, this place has been a blessing from nearly the moment he stepped inside. He doesn’t quite feel like a God or a king anymore, but he certainly feels like a prince, and he’ll treat himself just like one. 

  
  


 

Dennis peruses the Stussy Supermall brochure in the elevator on the way to the spa. There’s over 200 high fashion shops, nearly 50 specialist five-star restaurants, a level totally dedicated to an aquarium, an underground level for an ice rink, three levels for cinemas, an arcade boasting vintage and newly released modern games, and a bowling alley opening soon. There really is something for everyone. No wonder people are going wild taking their wads of cash into this place.

Frankly, he’s impressed. The Stussy Supermall certainly doesn’t look gold star from the outside. What a place he’s landed himself in. He puts the main brochure back into the rack in the elevator and selects one for the spa. It offers a number of different types of baths, full body massages, hand and feet therapy, hot stone treatments, manicures and pedicures and deeply invigorating sauna treatments. It might not strictly be a Turkish Bathhouse but he can certainly make do by arranging treatments to suit. He has his eyes on a package which includes a tea bath, a full body massage and a mani-pedi, with a bonus haircut and shave post-treatment. That will certainly clean his body from dried blood, and he’ll be able to remove the goatee which has grown back to the length Don Chumph had it was when he was shot. 

He puts the brochure back and grins, excited to indulge himself in everything this place has to offer. Granted, he is aware that one thousand dollars is not enough for the variety of amenities that the Stussy Supermall has to offer, but if there’s one thing Dennis learnt from his mother, it’s how to make other rich people know you deserve to be there even though you know your cheques will bounce because Frank overdrew the accounts in Vietnam. Dennis might not have any plastic or even a cheque book to sign with legitimate credentials, but he has a grand and his masterful charisma, and that can get a man a long way. Yes, mommy taught him well. 

He treats himself to the spa, covers it with a hefty portion of his cash, then tucks the rest against his hip in between a thick white towel which he wraps around his waist. His chest glistens as he strides his god-like body back into the elevator and takes the short trip to the shopping level. Lights illuminate the supple lines in his frame. Eyes are on him, attracted to him, jealous of him, in awe of him. It’s exhilarating. Dennis knows that, without a doubt, they all want to be him. They all can see how powerful he is. How stunning he is. And he feels… somewhat at peace. The spa was relaxing and the fact that he can barely smell anyone’s blood here makes it easier to forget that he’s hungry. 

He walks barefooted across the hard marble floors towards a men’s fashion department store, feeling like a Disney king as he marches in. An attendant swoops in and takes his measurements, fits him with an Armani suit, shoes and a hat to match. He strides through the department store in his new outfit and picks up a leather satchel from Fendi, high-top sneakers from Versace, a fine trench coat from Burberry, cologne from Ralph Lauren, and a couple of watches from Prada. He transfers the items he has so far into a cart and finds trousers for each day of the week, undershirts, blazers, sterling silver cufflinks, bow ties, neckties, silk boxers, socks, shoes, a few bandanas because why the hell not, and several pairs of high UV protection sunglasses. 

Once satisfied with his collection, he begins carting it all out of the shop so he can start on the next lot of brands on the other side of the atrium. It’s only then that a shop assistant calls out to him. 

“Excuse me, sir, you have to pay for that!”

Dennis grips onto the handle of the cart and walks a little faster. He calls over his shoulder, “Pay? I don’t have to pay!”

The shop assistant leaves his counter and power walks to stand in front of Dennis just as he has left the store. Theft alarms ring.

“Emily! Turn the alarms off, I got this,” he yells to the woman at the cologne counter. He grabs Dennis’ cart and yanks it back into the store, then says cordially, “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let you leave without making a payment.”

Pretenses over, time for Dennis’ back up plan. 

His knuckles go white as he grips the handlebar tighter. His shoulders hunching, he bares his teeth. His fangs slide out and Dennis, prepared for the sickness to come, feels nothing but a thrill at the absence of it. He laughs, his fangs sharp against his bottom lip. Finally,  _ finally _ , he can punish someone for the woes he has been through. 

Except a split second after his own fangs popped, so too does the shop assistant’s. He takes a similar stance, hunching like a snarling wolf, and his fangs extend longer and sharper than Dennis’ own, snarling at him with flecks of spit hanging off his teeth.

Dennis’ heart hammers in his throat. He continues to bare his teeth, lips curling, back arching downward. Much to his dismay, the assistant follows suit, but stronger, fiercer. It cannot compare to the sight he saw in the darkness of the boot, of his master’s figure in his mind’s eye becoming encompassed with what could only have been a demon straight from Hell, but what he’s currently seeing before his eyes is horrific in the true meaning of the word. 

Slowly Dennis’ fangs retread. He scowls. “How DARE you threaten me!”

The shop assistant straightens. His fangs slide back in and he takes a moment before turning to smile at Dennis. “Let me escort you to the counter, sir.”

As Dennis reluctantly follows the man back to the counter, the overhead alarms alternate from a high pitched ring to a low, spaced out horn. A handful of shouts attracts a crowd of people into the atrium, people spilling out of shops and running down stairs to join the chaos stirring at just the wrong time. It would have been the perfect distraction had Dennis decided not to take his choice of belts to the row of shops on the other side of the atrium. 

“Emily! I told you to turn the alarms off!” The shop assistant barks to the girl who just exited a back office door. 

“I did!” She shouts back. She cranes her neck to see past the clothing racks. “Looks like there are a bunch of humans rioting out there.”

“That won’t last long,” The shop assistant scoffs. 

“There’s a dude with a sword!” She says before running out of the store. 

“Are you just gonna let her go like that?” Dennis questions him. 

“I’m not taking my eyes off you.”

The shop assistant keeps scanning the mountain of clothes. Dennis bites his nails, trying to think of how he can get out of paying. His time has run out when the shop assistant starts bagging the last item. Dennis takes it upon himself to sweep his haul back into his cart, only the shop assistant stops him by slamming both hands down on the paper bags. 

Dennis huffs, but puts on an airy voice when he says, “Just bill it to my room.”

That one always got Mother out of paying for things upfront. 

“Your purchases total to a neat $32,000. I cannot bill it to your room without a 10% deposit.”

Dennis’ mouth drops. “Thirty-two- wha - If I get to live forever, why should I have to pay for it?!”

“Because living costs money. We don’t get a free pass from that just because the Devil let us walk on Earth a second time.”

“Well that sucks!” Dennis retorts, “What’s the point of all of this if I don’t get it for free?”

“Take it up with the elders. I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to give you the true death if you don’t want to play by the rules.”

“Oh, I’ll take this to the elders!” Dennis replies, not knowing really what that means. “I’ll take this as far as I need to go!” 

He slams down the 10% for the suit that he’s wearing and puts the rest on hold. He marches out with a pitiful amount of money left over, knowing that he cannot let anyone catch a hint of his lack of wealth or else they’ll force him to give back the Armani suit. He strides out of the shop and beelines around the crowd of people who suddenly erupt with loud heckling and booing. Dennis stands on the tips of his new shoes - which he sneakily got away without paying a cent for - and just over the top of the crowd he can see people pushing back and opening up a space in the centre. In it, a procession begins where people are pushing others along with bags over their heads. One of them has a katana sword sheathed over his back. 

For the most part, Dennis can’t smell much. He gets hints of scents, blood surging here and there indicating to him that the crowd is a mix of people with vampires in the majority. The people with bags over their heads seem to all be humans, bar one. Some vampires in the inner ring lurch forward with their fangs bared, only to be pushed back in line by those pushing the prisoners, for lack of a better word, onwards.

It’s a strange, beastly sight. He wonders if, in the middle of the day, the crowd will descend upon the human prey and wreck havoc. Part of him wants to be there to catch stray blood, most of him is concerned that his suit will get ruined. He decides to return to his room. He supposes that he has left Lester alone for a while. He better go check on him and make sure he hasn’t pissed himself. 

He slinks along the backside of the crowd and fights his way to the front of the line to the elevator. There, he sits through the highest concentration of humans he has encountered since he entered the mall. Dozens upon dozens flock to the elevator, some even bolting up the stairs. Aware that he has just bathed himself thoroughly and dressed himself in the most expensive suit he has ever worn, he tries incredibly hard not to smell them. He breathes out of his mouth thinking it will help but it’s like he can taste human blood in his throat, and he has to clamp his mouth shut and concentrate on filtering out everything but the elevator moving down the shaft just so that he doesn’t undo everything that he has accomplished so far. 

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know man. I think they’re people who just came for the money, you know, they didn’t stick around.”

“For real?!”

“You don’t know that…”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard! You really think a radical group pushing for societal overhaul would punish people in such a public manner?”

There’s a pause among the group of people waiting with Dennis for the elevator. 

“...Yep, actually that makes sense.”

“Did you get the latest notification?”

“What notification?”

“The offer has been doubled.”

“Tripled!”

“I’m gonna be able to pay off my car with 10k!”

“10k?!” Dennis interjects. 

“Yeah, dude, come to the seminar! They’re giving out free money!”

“What seminar? The environment one?”

“Yeah it’s about living sustainably and changing the world and shit. They give you 3k just for taking the flier and 10k for listening!”

“Cool, I’m just gonna skip the seminar and get the money,” Dennis says, annoyed that he missed out on an extra 2k. 

“You can’t, the rules says that you have to-”

“I’m just gonna get the money,” Dennis says, placating the girl, but regretting it when he leans in close and sees her pulse beating underneath the thin skin around her neck. 

“Are you okay?!” Someone says, a soft touch on his shoulder. 

He flinches away. He pushes into the elevator as soon as it arrives and forces the others out, leaving himself alone with the bellhop, who’s actually really attractive despite her robotic voice. 

“Seems like a design flaw that I should have to share an elevator with prey,” Dennis says to the bellhop. 

The elevator ascends and the smell of the blood of those annoying humans quickly disappears. 

He repeats, “I said, it seems like a design flaw that I should have to share this with prey.”

He looks at her, expecting a response. She has a tight uniform on, her large breasts swelling out of a red laced corset. She says nothing. 

“So, what’s your deal?”

“I’m here to help.” 

Then it clicks. He doesn’t even need Ruth Golfer or whatever that old lady’s name was. He can just ask this stupid bitch anything and she’ll spit it out! 

“Can you tell me how I can turn humans into vampires?”

“No.”

Dennis falters. “No?!”

“You’ll have to speak to your master about that.”

Dennis lets out a massive groan that sways his body from side to side. “I don’t want to talk to Malvo he’s a bastard man who won’t tell me shit!”

“Ah, your master is Lorne Malvo?” She says, her eyes alight with a twinkle. 

“Yeah, you heard of him?” Dennis says morosely, having lost interest in the whole affair. 

“Indeed. Lorne Malvo was a vampire hunter in the 18th century. He assumed master status in 1785. He is one of the only vampires to not face a hearing with the elders in recent history due to his exemplary behaviour. As such, he has rarely been seen nor heard. ”

“Rarely seen, huh? Well,  _ I’ve  _ seen him-”

“-As have I.”

“-Sometimes I hear him in my head, too, it’s creepy as sh-- wait, what did you just say?”

“I had the pleasure of meeting Lorne Malvo for the first time this afternoon,” the Bellhop says, for the first time sounding more human than ever. 

“WHAT.”

She pulls out a pocket watch. “He was in this elevator approximately four minutes and twenty-three seconds ago.”

The elevator opens on his level. 

“Going up or down?!”

“To this level, sir.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if there are any mistakes! thanks for reading :D
> 
> also i can't remember if i linked a picture of Ruby earlier, [here's](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DC5Wge_VYAEf8EL.jpg) a pic of her in Fargo s3.


	28. Ten thousand ways to make it hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay this week! i forgot to post it on the regular day >.<

Admittedly, Meemo had been sulking so he hadn’t been paying a whole lot of attention when five humans and one vampire stormed into the mall. 

_ Master, there’s trouble _ . 

_ I have enough trouble up here with hundreds of careless idiots sitting in on my seminar. I can tell they don’t care, they’re just here for the money that that  _ child  _ used to get her job done quicker. When will  _ any  _ of you learn that money is the fool’s way of playing the long game? To play it right, you have to- _

_ They have weapons! _

_ I don’t care, Meemo! I'm busy! _

_ But- _

_ It'll work out, see for yourself! _

  
  


Meemo locks the last prisoner in the torture rooms and shoves the keys into his pocket. He’s going to have to wait until Varga is done with selecting his spies before he can show off the potential threats. Potential. That’s the key word there. He shouldn’t even bother. Varga’s only going to rub it in his face. 

He stomps down the staircase descending into the bar and slumps down on a barstool. He asks the bartender for the highest blood-alcohol concentrate.

Getting wasted at humanity’s lunchtime is the midnight peak hour for vampires so he doesn’t have to feel bad about going hard. He knows they’re all judging him though. They think he’s just Varga’s bellboy but none of them have any idea what Varga is building behind the scenes. Not even the vampires employed here. They’re all too caught up in the world revolving around themselves to notice what’s really going on, let alone that Meemo is  _ hurting _ . 

The first attempt at robbery or a massacre or whatever the hell those vampire hunters were trying to do - failed, just as Varga had said it would. The threat had rocketed in, and people - vampires and humans alike - came flying out of the streets, the shops, their rooms, every corner and crevice, and they came to fight back. No, it wasn’t guns coming out of secret compartments in the walls or barricade bars sliding down over entry points or armed guards storming in from some secluded room to save the day. It was the people who protected this place. They threw up their hands and raised their voices and the threat was taken out in just seconds.  _ Seconds _ . 

Meemo takes a long swig of his drink and taps it on the bar. He stares as the bartender fills his glass, thick red blood pouring out of the bottle like hot jam.

Varga’s wrong about one thing. People don’t have to care to fight for a cause. This very incident goes to show that people will protect their right to buy indulgence that they can’t get anywhere else. They will fight for that. They’ll go up empty handed against a dude wielding a katana sword. A  _ katana sword _ .

He downs his drink faster than the first and asks for another. 

“Sir? Excuse me.”

Meemo can hear a staff member talk loudly at the top of the stairs and his conversation with a guest cuts into Meemo’s morose contemplation. He takes out his earphones. 

“What are you doing in there? That’s the supplies closet…”

“I’m looking for your goddamn security room!”

“We don’t have one.”

The guest gasps. “What do you mean you don’t have one? Don’t you have any security cameras?”

“No, we don’t.”

“Wha- why the hell not?! A man broke into my room and stole something out of it!!! What the hell are you going to do about that?!”

See, this guy gets it. Too bad he’s lying. 

“Did he not just take back what was initially his?” The staff member quips. 

That’s done it. Meemo puts his earphones back in, not wishing to listen to two vampires fight, which leaves him with his thoughts once more. He can’t take it. Can’t take how Varga’s point was proved with little to no effort. They’ll never need high tech protection because vampire hunters, the only humans who even know about vampires, aren’t even smart enough to take down the mall with a large radius bomb let alone a high powered machine gun. They’re so antiquated that they  _ still _ think the best weapons of choice are silver blades. How are they still so totally brainwashed to think that that’s more effective than modern technology?

It’s so stupid that he should be laughing, but he hasn’t been able to smile since he lost Yuri. Yuri would be on Meemo’s side. He would be arming every point of entry and rigging a single networked system that’s unhackable from the outside and he would be protecting what they’re building here because putting money into that is worth far more than lining the pockets of any human who cares about the poor, helpless sea turtles. But no, Varga has to be old school. And he  _ lied _ to him about Yuri. Told him he was gone when he was  _ gone _ gone. 

This whole fiasco has never made Meemo feel more human. Useless. Expendable. Lied to. Heartbroken. 

“No, you better tell me who the hell I can speak to about this!” Meemo hears above the sound of his music.

The physical fight ends quickly and the verbal resumes. 

“I had to pay for clothes which I  _ needed _ and which  _ should _ have been free because of how I was treated in there! I had to put up with a very rude employee who let one of his fellow employees walk out on the job! On the job! I’m a businessman myself and I’ve never let something like that happen at my bar! There were people waiting to be served and he just let her walk right off!”

“Sir, please calm down-”

“No, no! After all of this bullshit happens, I come back to my room to find that my human, MY human, has gotten out of his cuffs?! You heard me.  I saw them laying on the carpet in the OPEN doorway. There is something disastrously wrong with this establishment and I DEMAND to speak to the man in charge!”

“I’m sorry to hear that but Mr Varga doesn’t take appointments.”

“I don’t CARE if he doesn’t take appointments, I want to speak to him right now!”

“You can take any feedback you have to the front desk-”

“Oh, the front desk?” The man incredulously asks a staff member just outside of the bar, “You want me to speak to that douchebag? He wouldn’t even book me a room until that old bitch made him! Can I ask you a question? Why are the staff here so rude? I’ve never,  _ never _ , in my life spent so much money at a hotel that doesn’t treat their guests with the utmost of respect!”

Meemo presses his cheek to the damp bar and gazes up the staircase to look at two pairs of legs. His gaze bounces down the stairs and he eyes the red liquid in his glass, watching it slosh around as he twists the glass on the surface of the bar. 

“Sir, I’m deeply sorry you feel that way but I absolutely cannot arrange a meeting with Mr Varga. He is currently engaged in a seminar. May I repeat my offer of you speaking to the front desk?”

“Absolutely not. You tell Mr Varga that I want to speak to him. Right here. I’m not leaving until he learns just how royally he has messed up my business.”

The staff member leaves. The man fumes on the top of the stairs. The music from his earphones returns as the main focus of sound. Meemo feels dizzy even with his cheek still pressed against the bar. He asks for another shot and a long straw, and slowly sucks the blood-alcohol out sideways. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, there’s someone sitting at a bar stool a couple of seats down from him, appearing like a missing frame from a roll of film. 

The man rests his broken hand on the counter and tries to order but the bartender won’t pay any attention to him. Keeps washing the dishes with his back turned. 

“I can’t believe this,” The man mutters. 

Meemo barely hears it. He belatedly realises that it’s the guest who was arguing at the top of the stairs just now. Or earlier. He’s not sure how long he blacked out for. He keeps staring at the guy, his hearing going for a little while, only to come back when the bartender changes the classical music on the speakers to hip hop. It takes him a little while to realise that the bartender isn’t serving the vampire because he has no money. He only offers threats or poor sweet talking and gets nothing but the opportunity to pinch what’s remaining in Meemo’s shot glass. 

Meemo lets him have it. Looks like he needs it too because it turns out that his broken hand isn’t a permanent state. It starts healing the moment the guy downs what’s left of his drink. 

“Oh my god, this is delicious. What is this?!” He asks the room.

Meemo watches the guy lick every last drop out of the glass. He takes out his earphones and crumples them in knots into his pocket. 

“Oh, you can tell me, I don’t have anything to do with my bar anymore. I’m not gonna steal the recipe. I’ve tried that shit before, it’s not easy to replicate drinks even if you do know the ingredients.”

Meemo laughs a sloppy laugh, swallows a hiccup and says, “It’s vodka.”

“No, I’ve tasted vodka before. This doesn’t taste like vodka.”

Meemo lifts his chest and sits up properly and sways and grips the bar. The world spins a bit, hip hop bangs against his ears. He asks the bartender for the bottle and another shot glass and he pours them both a shot to the brim. The guy eagerly takes the offered shot and downs it. Meemo stares at the guy’s hand as it gradually heals and doesn’t down his own shot because he forgets he’s even holding onto it. 

“Anya? What’s this brand? I’ve never seen this before. We don't have this in Philadelphia.”

Meemo blinks slowly. “Antyo- haven’t you ever had a White Russian?”

“Of course I’ve had a White Russian. This isn’t a White Russian.” The guy stares at him, waiting for a response and when he gets none, he say, “First of all, White Russians aren't red.”

Meemo licks his lips. He twirls his forefinger in the air, gesturing for the guy to turn the bottle around so he can see the picture of Anya on the label. Let that sink in. Sink to the counter. Condensation on his hot cheeks. Red sloshing, yellow lights warm and swimming. 

“Oh, I get it. It’s blood… from a white Russian. That’s not bad. Not bad at all,” The guy says, still trying to make conversation with the bartender or to anyone who will listen. “You guys have got a good thing going on here, bottling intoxicated blood. Ever thought about expanding? I could have a couple of takers down in Philly, that’s for sure.”

Meemo hears the glass fill again. He closes his eyes and slumps his shoulders forward and slides his palms over the counter to stop himself from swaying back and forth when the bar becomes a sampan in his mind, stuck in a violent storm along the Yellow River. It was the Second Great Awakening; an expedition led by Yuri under Varga’s guidance, a rejection of the Enlightenment’s rationalism and its overthrow of humanity’s harmony with nature. Varga sought to reinstate the Great Chain of Being - the natural order of God being above all, and beneath him, angelic beings, humans, animals, plants, minerals, and demonic beings. Varga was one of the first of Satan’s demons to understand that if humans divorced God from being in all things, then it would allow them to control their resources relentlessly. They would, and have, let their greed muddy their souls and made far too many impure for heaven. 

Varga turned him on the night before the British East India Company’s fleet was to land on mainland China. He had spent the voyage via the British East India Company trade routes down the Yellow River translating the bible into Chinese to prepare the holy and the unholy for the Second Coming. They had arrived at Xi’an at day and by night he stepped off the wooden boat and stood on the riverbank, breathing his first breath of his second life. 

The gentle waves soaked in the darkness of the night and reflected the fire of the torch in his hand. He stood by Yuri’s side as they turned good souls over to God all over China and stood by Yuri’s side for another 200 years after that, all over the world. Through civil wars and flash floods and forest fires that never claimed more lives than they two of them together and the next thing he knows, blood splatters all over him. 

He snaps his eyes open to see that his company has spluttered his drink everywhere. The bartender rushes over and spreads hand towels over the blood, the white paper soaking up the red. 

The guy wipes his face clean. “Wha- why does it taste like shit now?! What did you put in it?? Did you spike this?!”

Meemo licks the blood off the top of his hands. “I didn't touch it.”

The guy glares at him. Then Meemo watches the guy try to lick off the excess blood he has on his hand, only to recoil from the taste.

“The only kind of people who can’t take this-” Meemo says as clearly as he can manage, before downing his full shot. “-are humans or a vampire who’s never had a drop of alcohol in their human life-” The guy lets out a wild cackle “-Your master must have told you not to drink.”

“Yeah, it sucks,” the guy says, cringing at his choice of words. “How do I cancel it? I need to cancel it, tell me I can cancel it.”

Meemo smirks. “Only a master has the power to remove a curse.”

“A curse,” the guy scoffs. He hangs his head for a moment, then lifts with vigorous anger flashing in his eyes. “He was meant to teach me how to turn vampires so I can turn my best friend! It's imperative that I assert my power over him by turning him myself. You understand that I can't just let any other vampire change him. It has to be me.”

Meemo chokes on laughter, blood rising in his throat only to fall and join the rest of it pooling in his stomach. “You can’t turn  _ anyone _ .”

“What do you know?! You’re just some drunk! You were probably drunk in your ‘human’ life too. I know your type. Oh, I know you filthy low life drunkards who roam the streets getting screwed by any street rat. You’re disgusting. You disgust me.”

Meemo rolls his eyes. He hates that the Elders are so lax now with keeping new vampires alive. They can be so annoying.

“Only masters can turn humans into vam-”

“Well how do I become a master?”

“You don’t.”

The guy isn’t taking the news very well. His face is going pink, his eyes watering. Meemo turns his shot glass upside down. He should go soon. He can already feel the alcohol and blood separating in his stomach and even though he just had blood splattered all over him, he’s not the type to return the favour by vomiting vodka all over the place. 

“Why do you want to turn your friend? It’s better to just leave them, wherever they are, and start a new life.”

The guy sighs exasperatedly. “Because I want to make him DO things. I want to see what he does! I want to test my tools on him in ways any other person would say no to. I want to  _ torture _ him. I want to make him eat things until he vomits. I want to make him feel pain!!”

“My favourite used to be putting a light bulb in their mouths.”

“A light bulb.” The guy repeats flatly. “Is that meant to be a joke? Like a genius moment joke?”

“You put one in their mouth and because of the shape of it, they can’t push it out with their tongue so they are forced to keep their mouths open for as long as they can or bite it.”

“That’s… that’s the best god damn idea I’ve heard yet. And he’ll heal, right? Even with glass in his mouth? I’ve learned that part myself. My blood heal humans and human blood heals me.”

“Yep,” Meemo replies dryly at this guy’s attempt at looking clever. “Feed a vampire human blood and they’ll push out all the shards of glass from their body and return to the state at which they were turned. Glass is a particularly painful one, not as bad as diamonds and silver. Mix all three together and you’ve got something not even the Devil wants in his body.”

“Amazing. God damn amazing. You say the Devil has a body?” The guy asks, nodding, then continues, “No, no, see that’s why I need to turn Mac. I need to see what he does!”

Meemo moves his straw to the bottle and pulls it closer to his chest and stirs the straw around. “You can do that to anyone.”

“But I want to do it to Mac. He’s been my best friend for twenty odd years and it annoys me that there’s still some things that I don’t know about him yet because he’s too much of a pussy to even try.”

“And because anything you try will kill him if he’s not immortal.”

“Yeah, well you get the idea.” The guy pauses, eyes the bottle of blood that Meemo is sipping from, and adds, “Seriously dude, you have to tell me how to beat this thing. I’m starving  _ all the time _ . It’s all I can think about. You’re lucky you’re not a human or I would have killed you by now.”

Meemo laughs. “Look, the only way you can lift the curse is by getting your master to do it. Who turned you?”

“Uh, Lorne Malvo.”

Meemo frowns. “Really?”

“Why’d you say it like that?”

“He doesn’t let his turns live,” Meemo explains. He leans over the empty chair and tries to catch a whiff of the guy but he’s too plastered to make sense of the scents he picks up on. He slides onto the empty seat beside the guy. “I’ve never met - are you sure it was him?”

“Yeah, does it matter? Is he hard to find or something because your elevator bitch told me he was here not long ago. Yeah. And he still didn’t lift my curse even though I got that -- I did the thing he asked me to do. That bastard, that lying bastard. What am I going to do, huh? How do I cancel this thing? Vampires are meant to drink blood! And I can’t even do that!”

Meemo grimaces inwardly. How many times has he thought his master would treat him well after completing the task he had been assigned, only to receive no form of gratitude? They really are all the same...

“There is… one option. I’ve never seen it done before though… There’s barely any left.”

“Tell me.”

“You can become a master yourself. It’s… almost impossible.”

“I’ll do it, or I’ll figure out a way for someone else to do it for me. I need to be cured god damn it!”

“No, you have to be the one to kill a master, if you want to become one. The only one in town that I know of - besides apparently yours - is my master, Varga.”

“Oh, Varga is a master, is he? Well that’s easy. I’ve already got a handful of issues I need to talk to him regarding how he runs his business here so I’ll just meet with him and take him out. Can't be that hard. I've done worse.”

Meemo screws the lid over the now empty bottle. “...You realise you’re talking to his bodyguard right now.”

“You? Where is he then? Aren’t bodyguards meant to have eyes on their body?”

“...Actually I’m meant to be guarding the prisoners in the torture rooms.”

The guy’s eyes go wide at the mention of torture rooms. “You’re not even doing that right! Jesus Christ. Varga has a serious problem with his staff here.” He gets to his feet. “No, I  _ need  _ to speak to him. Is he at these torture rooms? Where are those exactly?”

Meemo slides off his stool and grips onto the counter for support. “You won’t be able to-”

“-You think you’re gonna stop me?!”

“I’ll-” 

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. The next thing he knows, he’s spewing pure vodka all over the floor. He stumbles away from the clear liquid spreading over the tiles and holds back tear stained laughter. 

“Jesus christ. This is depressing. What do you, what have you even got to be sad about? You’re a vampire. You get to live forever,” the guy says, as if it’s the most obvious key to happiness in the world. 

Meemo’s laughter dies back and he clutches his stomach and looks at the guy. “You know what’s funny? There are so many ways my master could be killed in this place and he walks around like he’s invincible. Today a human tried to take this place over with a katana and he couldn’t even get past the foyer before he was stopped. That’s why it’s-” Meemo pauses to hiccup, “-So infuriating working for Varga. He’s an idiot, attacked by idiots, and protected by idiots!”

“You’re not excluded,” the guy says, his eyes narrowing, “You were sitting here getting drunk while on the clock. What kind of an employee does that?”

Meemo sways on his feet. “I should get back to the torture rooms. My master is not there if that’s what you’re thinking. I don’t know where he is right now. I’ll know when he summons me.”

The guy’s eyes are alight with devious intent. “Oh yeah right, I can wait for that. Let’s circle back to the mention of torture rooms. I like the sound of that.”

Meemo lets out a sigh. Most vampires can’t resist stretching their victims to their absolute limits. It would be insane for Varga not to include such facilities, yet it’s where he was asked to hold the stupid vampire hunters until Varga has time to deal with them. He shouldn’t let anyone in. He shouldn’t even be away from his post, but what’s the point anymore? He can’t even get drunk to make himself forget how useless he has become. 

“Come on, dude, I have to see this.”

Meemo sighs again and gives in to the vampire’s request. “You can come if you help me there.”

  
  


Dennis follows the short chinese dude toward the steps in the bar and he’s not sure if the dude tried to punch him or hug him because his arm slips around Dennis’ waist and he has to basically haul the guy up the stairs. It’s frankly embarrassing. He just hopes there’s no more spew in either of them to get on his new suit. 

The guy takes him into a separate elevator - a small poky one made for the waiting staff to access the floors, but they use it to go to wherever the hell the torture rooms are. It’s hot inside. The guy slumps in the corner. Dennis finally asks the guy’s name, which he finds out is Meemo - ridiculous. He does not introduce himself, rather, he watches how the mirror reflects a slightly bald patch on the top of Meemo’s head. Dennis can’t take his eyes away from it because otherwise he’ll glower at Meemo’s slimy, sweaty face. 

Finally they arrive on the correct floor and Meemo has to lean on Dennis in order to move forwards. There are three things Dennis wants to do. Eat, kill his master - or a master - any master - and find Mac so that he can do all kinds of things to him. He’s also hoping to snoop around these so called torture rooms and see if he can be inspired. The light bulb idea that Meemo gave him had been incredible, and his mind is racing with the kinds of creative ideas he could have at his disposal here. It’s way better occupying his brain with that than thinking about how he may never be able to consume blood without knowing it ever again. 

The floor is just like any other hotel; a long corridor with a number of doors leading off from either side. Meemo pushes off Dennis at one door kind of halfway down and he pulls out a large keyring with what looks like hundreds of keys hooked on. Dennis had been wondering what that lump in his skinny jeans was. 

“The dude with the sword is in there.” Meemo opens the door and waves a hand.  “I’ll be just outside.”

Dennis doesn’t wait for him to retract the statement or lay down any ground rules. He strides in and pushes the door shut behind him, then turns around slowly to take in the room. The walls are a deep red velvet. There are no windows. There are a number of candelabras arranged along the wall, burning warm, wax dripping to the carpet and smoke rising to the ceiling. Off-centre is a trolley with various sharp objects shining on top. Along with some familiar leather and whip goods, there’s also feathery teasers, an assortment of flower buds and petals, a box of baby wipes and a box of latex disposable gloves. Not very environmentally friendly, Dennis thinks. 

Then, in the centre, there’s a man on his knees with a sack over his head. He has his hands tied at the front, tied tight around his wrists and he has the aforementioned katana presented like a gift in front of his knees. It’s a sight to behold. Like God serving him a gift. He doesn’t breathe too hard so as not to take in much of a scent, trying to maintain as much control over his weak body as he can. But at the sound of Dennis closing and locking the door, the man slaps his hands together and starts to frantically pray under his breath. Dennis smirks. He closes in on the man, and the closer he gets, the louder his prayers become. It’s exhilarating. 

“O God who art in heaven, please save me! Please wash my body of sins even though I don’t have any! I promise I’m meant to go to heaven!”

Dennis cannot breathe for a moment. He recognises that voice. He recognises that stupid tribal tattoo on the guy’s bicep. He dares to take a whiff of the man’s blood and -- “You better not be-” he starts saying as he reaches forward and yanks the sack off to reveal- “Mac! What the hell?!”


	29. Mac vs. God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mac chapters remind us all that this fic is based on a comedy)

While Dennis is out doing his ‘detective’ work, Mac scrapes off the leftovers of their dinner from the nights before, pushing the remnants of food off the plate with his knife and flicking them out the window. When almost all of the plates are scraped clean he looks at the sink that’s already full with dirty dishes and opts to shoving them underneath the bed. Satisfied with the completed job, he shuts the window and jumps into bed and turns the TV on to watch Lethal Weapon. 

Mac no longer cares that he hasn’t been back to Philly in forever because his life is pretty good right now. He can basically do everything he ever did in Philly in Minneapolis, minus having to work sometimes and having to see Dee. He misses Charlie. Yeah, it would be pretty cool to have Charlie around. But for now, he’s overjoyed because the main thing is, the best news of all time, is that Dennis said he loves him. Mac already knew it anyway, it was undeniable, but hearing those words come out of Dennis’ mouth really meant a lot, even though it took a long ass time for him to actually say the words…

  
  


 

_ He meant what he said on the phone. He doesn’t know what to do. He can’t find his path. He’s not sure he ever really heard God’s voice but he definitely can’t hear Him now that he absolutely has zero idea of what to do in a city where he has no money, no friends or family, and no apartment to go home to. All he needs right now is someone to tell him what to do... _

And so he prayed, sincerely, that he could find someone to scam -- with assuredly more success than when he tried to scam change out of that blonde chick and her Dad or whoever before. He knew if he had targeted someone better, he would be able to get himself back to Philly. But just as he began to pray, he started to feel dizzy. He didn’t think it was only from the heat in the booth, probably he was thinking too much. He couldn’t think of a prayer to say anyway so he slid out of the phone booth.

The noise of the street amplified immediately which helped to make Mac more alert, except that the crowd was moving so fast that he got swept up in it. He got moved down a ways before being able to pull himself out of the crowd by standing on a ledge flush against a shop window. 

“Heya!” A woman’s voice sliced down the thin gap between shop front and river of people to reach Mac just a few yards away.

Mac looked over the heads of the crowd to find the source of the voice but his attention was caught by two bodyguard looking men prowling around the car he stole. They both wore identical large brim hats, sunglasses, ankle length trench coats and boots, despite the warmth of the day. One wore a red trench coat and the other black, the latter resembling the duster. Mac thought it would be pretty cool if he and Dennis could wear matching dusters together one time, but put the thought aside because he remembered that he hadn’t wiped his fingerprints off any part of the car he stole. 

Then one of the bodyguards looked his way and Mac dropped off the little ledge and slinked along the wall. Some people bustled out of the door of a cafe. Mac waited for them to disperse into the crowd and once they did, he spotted the woman who he had tried to trick earlier sitting down not far from him. 

She smiled when he made eye contact with her. “Hey there! You’re not a bad looking guy! How about you come spend time with me?” She asked, twirling a strand of blonde hair around her finger. 

Mac fidgeted with his fingers for a moment, looking at what he had before him. The woman was sitting at a table stand with a cloth thrown over it. On the table were a bunch of fliers, a pitcher of water and a plate of cupcakes that the people passing by kept knocking, getting the edges of their suits or bags touched with frosting. The man who had dragged her around before appeared to be gone. Frankly, he had no interest in the woman, but he decided to go and stand on the side of her table to blend into the crowd until those dudes left. 

“Is this free?” Mac asked, but he was already pouring himself a cup of water. 

He sculled the water, poured himself another, then grabbed a cupcake that still had most of its frosting.

The woman waited until he picked up the cupcake to push a flier toward him. She said, “I don’t suppose you care about the environment, do ya?”

He looked down at the flier briefly. There was a picture of a tree, the word ‘sustainability’, and the slogan contained something along the lines of ‘change the world’.  Just your basic tree-hugger bullshit. With his mouth full of a second cupcake, Mac replied, “I don’t give a shit about the environment.”

The woman rested her elbow on the table cloth, her chin in her palm, and she smiled blankly. “You all keep saying that.”

Mac went for his third cupcake. 

She let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m meant to appeal to people who want to live ‘environmentally sustainably’. I’d say Minnesota’s the wrong state for that.”

“Wrong country,” Mac said. 

She laughed. She leant back in her chair and held her head in her hands. “See, my boss wants as many ‘forward-thinking’ recruits as possible. How am I meant to lure environmentalists when you only approach my stand because you wanna bang me?”

Mac spoke through a mouthful of cupcake, “I don’t want to bang you, I’m gay!”

“Ah jeez, well, you got me there. Well, maybe you can help me out. How can I get people to care? People who  _ do  _ care don’t want to go into a place like that,” she said, gesturing to the Stussy Supermall across the road. The way she spoke about it made it seem like trash but Mac wasn’t quite sure what she meant by it being an eyesore. The mall was the biggest building in sight. Plus it looked fancy as shit! He bet that the restaurants inside it were even fancier than Guigino’s going by how ornate the exterior of the building looked. 

She continued, “What environmentalist wants to meet in a hotel function room on top of a mall that has every high brand store under the sun? You tell me how that’s anti-capitalist.”

Mac hadn’t really listened to what she said but he picked up on the last word enough to connect some invisible dots. “Woah, I’m not eating commy cupcakes, am I?!”

“O no, I bought these. I’m no communist, my boss is. Communism’s biggest fan -- that’s Varga. I’m just the gal stuck with this as punishment...” 

Mac felt as if she was going to explain why and he didn’t care about her backstory, so he gave her his opinion on how to fix her problem. “I have a lot of experience with getting people to do things that they don’t want to do,” Mac said with an air of confidence, knowing that he was probably a bit older than her and knowing that it was in blonde’s genes to be born dumber than the rest of society. He continued, “And what I have always done is to blackmail people. It always works. I’ve never had a problem with it. And it’s a lot of fun.”

The woman lowered her chair back to all fours. “Blackmail is what got me here, buddy.”

“Then money.”

She blinked at him for a little while, confirming Mac’s knowledge that blondes, particularly women, were not as intelligent as everyone else. Finally, she said, “O gosh, see, you’re onto something there… This is what I’ve been trying to tell old Varga. People don’t want a sense of purpose, they want money.”

A sense of purpose… or money? Mac could do with both. 

“You’d think my boss would be fine with giving away free money but it seems he’s only fine with  _ taking  _ free money. Isn’t that ironic?” She laughed but Mac didn’t understand the context and only smiled wanly. “So what do you think? Fifty bucks with each flier?”

“Fifty bucks!”

“O, not enough? How about a hundred?”

“A HUNDRED BUCKS!”

“You’re driving a hard bargain here, fella. My final offer. A thousand dollars.”

“A THOUSA-” Mac gripped the table for support. He could not believe how easy it was to scam that dumb bitch. 

She grinned and stood up on her chair and waved her arms in the air. “Gayle! Wayne!” 

Mac looked up at her and told her, “The only way I get in there is if I get  _ two  _ thousand dollars.”

“Great idea! I can promise people more if they actually go to the thing, that’ll get my boss off my back. Thanks! Hey Gayle! Wayne! Where are you -- ah, fetch me a box from my room. Fill it with, oh, I don’t know, a hundred thousand dollars?”

At this, Mac choked for two reasons. Number one, this woman was going to pull  _ one hundred thousand dollars _ out of her bedroom? Who was she?! And number two, and perhaps chiefly the reason why he was frozen in place, was because the two men who the woman had hailed over were in fact the two bodyguards he had seen snooping around his stolen car. They emerged from the crowd like anchors drawn out of the sea. Solid features unmoved by the people rushing around them. It was creepy enough, then they had to  _ look _ at Mac. He wished they were still wearing their sunglasses because the look he received was so absolutely deadly that he felt like death was near. 

Then, thank  _ God _ , they finished listening to the woman’s instructions and silently submerged themselves into the crowd once more. 

“Oh, shoot, I forgot to-” The woman jumped off her chair and cupped Mac’s cheeks between her hands and looked straight into his eyes. “Hey handsome, can you man the store while I’m gone?”

She promptly plunged herself into the crowd, chasing after the two men she had just sent away. Mac felt compelled to stay put, though he thought it was probably a good idea because he could pretty easily take on those two creepy dudes and run off with the money. They were practically handing him his way out of this town, and he hadn’t even had to pray for it! Well, if he’d gone through with that plan, he mightn’t have been able to hear Dennis saying he loved him for a long time. 

“Mac?”

Mac heard his name but he was already leaning over the table and trying to reach for the last cupcake that didn’t have its frosting wiped off, so he didn’t turn around. The speaker then threw their arms around him from behind, which set off some major red flags for Mac, kickstarting his practically innate karate training skills. He spun around in the tight spot between crowd, wall and table and was about to karate chop the shit out of whoever was trying to body slam into him but stopped and dropped his cupcake in absolute shock when he saw that he was face to face with none other than Country Mac. 

Country Mac. In the flesh. Well, kind of. Mac later found out that his cousin, who he thought had been dead for years, was actually operating in North Dakota as an undercover vampire. Mac still can’t get over it. It’s so totally badass, he should have uppercutted Country Mac for leaving him out of it. Lucky he did run into his cousin when he did, then he could take part in something that was pretty cool, Mac thinks. Yeah. Still, it was wild to find out that, for years, instead of being dead, Country Mac had been working with the few vampire hunters left in North Dakota and other mid-western states to try and take down Minneapolis which was infested with vampires. The vampires had been able to overrun Minnesota’s vampire hunter HQ and had established a new home - the Stussy Supermall - right across the road from the old hunter’s HQ. What a punch in the face!

Well, Country Mac told him that he and the hunters had been planning an attack on the mall for ages. They had maps and weapons and a small team of fighters, and Mac wasn’t going to let his cousin slaughter a bunch of vampires without him, which was pretty cool because Country Mac took him away from the stand and ushered him to a secret warehouse hideout. He could have done with the money but he was clocked out from having had only a few hours of sleep and you know, being confronted with the fact that his cousin had re-appeared into his life. 

Country Mac set out a couple of milk crates in the great emptiness of the warehouse, positioning Mac in a spot where the sun cast down from the large dusty windows so as to provide Mac with a little bit of warmth in the otherwise cold warehouse. Country Mac sat himself in the shade beside him, and expressed to Mac how good it was to see him. He explained that since he had been turned in Philadelphia, he had been hunted there too and couldn’t risk returning. 

“I mean it, bro, it’s radical seeing you again!” Country Mac grinned. 

Mac tried to remain cool. “Whatever.”

“I gotta ask though, dude, did you have an accident recently? I can smell a shitton of second grade blood in you.”

Mac squinted. “Second grade? What are you saying about me? If anything, I have  _ first _ grade blood!”

Country Mac laughed. “First grade? No, dude, I’m just asking if you’ve got someone looking out for you?”

“I don’t have anybody looking out for me! I’m a vampire so I don’t need protecting!”

“He’s sitting in the sun!” One of the other hunters gathered around a map called out. 

“Bro, you still manage to give me stitches!” Country Mac said, laughing. 

“You better watch it, cuz. I could so easily unleash my vampire skills on you and you’d die for real.”

Country Mac clasped his chest. “Dude you have a totally misguided understanding here. You’re not a vampire.”

“What do you mean I’m not a vampire?! I’m 100% a vampire! You don’t know!” Mac’s voice echoed in the large warehouse. “Can’t vampires do this?!” Mac tugged off his t-shirt and flexed his muscles. 

“Anyone can do that,” Said a lady from behind Mac.

The sound of sharpening blades filled the gap that Mac’s voice left. 

“Nice, dude! You’ve been working out since I last saw you!” Country Mac observed. He smiled approvingly, giving Mac an ocular pat down, then popped out his fangs. “Wanna brawl for old times sake? I’ll go easy on you.” 

Mac had to roll his eyes. Country Mac had always been such a show off. He found his shirt and bundled it up in his fists, then sat back down on the milk crate.

“I don’t know how to make them come out yet,” Mac said, referring to the fangs, but it reminded him that the last time he saw Country Mac,  he was still closeted. It was really a low point in his life. Sure, he shat his pants in front of the gang, but the worst part was that his friends all thought that Country Mac was way cooler than he was. Mac was even  _ glad _ that his cousin died because it meant that he could be the coolest Mac. Knowing that Country Mac had spent the last five years as a super badass vampire ignited that competitive streak in him and he found that he couldn’t help trying to one up his cousin. 

“Whatever, I probably know tons more things about vampires than you.”

“This guy is hilarious! He’s your cousin?!” Another hunter said.

It was pretty validating because Mac thought that he could be a comedian in another life, one where Dee didn’t make it look so lame. 

Country Mac leant forward, propping his elbows on his thighs as he explained, “Clearly you know stuff but since the Elders haven’t gotten to you yet, it means they’re not watching. That can work in our favour.”

“The Elders? I’m not letting any old dudes near me!”

Country Mac paused to chuckle, then cleared his expression. “Look, I’ll be real with you because people like you are in danger. Humanity’s in danger, and we’ve got to do something about it. For a long ass time, vampire hunters thought that UVs were making Vs to make the Devil’s army stronger, but that’s not true. The Devil isn’t the one planning anything. He’s having the time of his life! It’s the UVs we’ve gotta focus our time and energy on. Take those out and we can eliminate all vampires for real.”

“No wait, you’re talking like the Devil is a real person?”

“Oh he’s real,” Country Mac replied sincerely, “Not a person though. He’s… he’s the Devil! And God’s God, up in his heaven. See, the thing is, the reason why vampires exist at all is because there’s an abundance of bad people in hell. 108 billion people who ever lived and heaven is populated with infants. If the Devil decided he wanted to wage war today, he would win. God knew this, so about two thousand years ago, he made a pact. God would let the Devil send his demons to Earth in order to cull down the numbers-”

“-God told the demons to kill good people before they turned bad.” A lady interjected. She came over with a milk crate and sat down with them. “And the bad people? Yeah, that’s what we call Vs. A UV entices a bad person, turns them, then kills them. Both God and the Devil wins. That’s what the Elders enforce, it’s what a board of vampires exists for. That and keeping the public in the dark of what’s really going on.”

“Yeah, but clearly that’s not being enforced anymore,” Country Mac said, “Since you being here talking about vampires proves that they’re no longer in control.”

“But why would God agree to that? Why would he let people die?!” Mac said. 

Country Mac glanced between his colleague, then took cue. “The people God’s not letting into heaven or hell aren’t good people. Hell, I know I wasn’t going upstairs for all the shit I did in my human life.”

“What God didn’t account for was that the Devil would allow his worst souls to get a second shot at life on earth. Eternal life. That’s what the UVs are - human vessels possessed by the worst humans that ever went to Hell. Or they were. There aren’t many original demons left. Just the watered down versions,” The lady explained. 

“We’ve been able to kill a good number of UVs and countless Vs. UVs are hard to get to though, hard to kill for good as well,” Country Mac added.

“Wait, wait, if Dennis got turned into a vampire, does that mean that he is possessed by a demon?! No wonder he’s been acting so weird!!”

“Dennis is a vampire?” Country Mac said, at first shocked, then understanding. “It’s for the best.”

“For the best?!” Mac jumped to his feet, the milk crate skidding out underneath him. “My best friend is a demon!” 

Country Mac held up his hands, trying to calm Mac down. “Chill dude. I never said vampires were demons, I said that UVs are. UVs turn people and inject their demon blood into the human vessel. All that means is that when a vampire gets killed, they’ll turn to dust. They’ll go to neither heaven nor hell, they’ll simply cease to exist. Whereas nobody really knows what happens when a UV is killed. We’ve only ever managed to freeze them up North. It’s the best we’ve been able to do to cut down their numbers.”

“What the hell? Does that mean that… if Dennis dies, I won’t get to see him in heaven?”

Country Mac laughed again and that time Mac knew he was the butt of the joke. “Dude, you are so going to hell.”

“WHAT! No way!”

“Yeah, dude.”

Mac kicked the milk crate and watched it skid across the concrete floor. “I knew being gay was a sin!”

“Oh, bro? You’re out and proud now!” Country Mac said. He stood up and clapped his cousin on the shoulder. “But it’s not because you’re gay,” Country Mac explained candidly, “God is totally chill with that. You’re going to hell because you’re not a good person.”

Mac gasped. “I’m a good person! I’m a ten times better person than you!” He turned to scowl at his cousin, “Thinking you’re holier than thou! When I die, I’m going to heaven! I’m going to party with the angels and no one can stop me!”

The lady who had joined them earlier said, “O there aren’t any angels. Heaven is desolate.” 

Mac turned to gawk at her. She sat, slumped on her milk crate, and returned the gaze. Then, after a minute of blistering silence, she piped up once more. 

“Hey, aren’t ya that gentleman cop from Hollywood? O boy, I barely recognised ya there because you lost the ‘mo!” 

It wasn’t hard to convince the team of hunters to commence the takeover of the Stussy Supermall right then and there. They had all the crew together, plus one more - himself. Although technically the crew did have an additional unplanned member - Gloria - who had come up from Philadelphia to collect weapons for her own HQ since much of the ammunition she had stored in Philly got cleared out prior to the HQ catching fire and almost burning down completely. She wasn’t meant to be on the team but at present, she was an unaccounted for extra pair of arms. Also, technically, adding Mac to the team was like adding four people so they really had a lot of manpower. 

Yeah, once Mac got Gloria off his back from thinking that she knew him from somewhere else when he’d never met her before in his life, it was pretty easy to convince them all to get going. All they’d been doing for the last few months was pour over plans and not actually do anything. They just needed a kick in the ass and Mac was more than capable of motivating them. 

He kind of listened to the plan but he was  _ really _ listening when someone handed him a gun packed with silver bullets. He weighed it in his hand, looking at the shiny black coat of paint glint in the low light. 

“I’m feeling so hot right now,” he said, turning over the gun and holding it sideways like a gangster. “More people should have guns. There should be guns in the hands of every man if there are vampires on the streets. Adult men, young men, boys, older men, hunks-”

“Hunks?” Gloria interrupted. 

“-Should be able to hold guns in not just their right hand,” Mac said, then grabbed another gun. “But in their left hand too. Yeah, dual wielding guns. That’s so totally badass.”

“What about women?” Gloria asked as she loaded her gun with silver bullets.

“Oh yeah, women, yeah sure whatever. I’m talking about dudes though. I’m talking about men holding guns, with their guns,” He said, flexing his biceps. “Yeah, I’m feeling so hot right now! I wanna go shoot some vampires!”

Mac thinks the mission probably would have been more successful if he had kept to guns, but at that moment he had remembered that Gloria had been sharpening blades which meant that there were sharp things like knives. And there was something even better. There was a sword. 

“Oh my god. How freaking badass would it be to slice up some vampires with a sword. Country Mac bro, being a vampire slayer is way cooler and more holier than thou than actually being a vampire! Vampires are an abomination to God so it’s really good that I got turned back into a human because I probably would never be let into heaven if I was a vampire.”

“That’s not how it-” Country Mac tried to argue. 

“-Screw guns! Everyone should use swords! All of you get geared up! Let’s do this!”

  
  


 

In retrospect, Mac had never been much of a leader, but at the time, it had seemed shit easy. 

The hunters thought it was ludicrous to even try the front, but Mac pointed out that there was only one person or vampire - he still can’t figure out from first glance - manning the entrance to the mall. A short asian dude with headphones in leant against the wall and while Mac was arguing with the hunters about what to do and that no, they shouldn’t go back for the guns because the swords were ultimately more badass, the guy straight up left his post leaving the entrance with no obstacles. 

It was a total no brainer. 

Mac lead them in, weapons blazing. Oh yeah, he told Dennis all about the looks on people’s faces when a handful of people ran in with some crazy sharp swords. It was awesome up until the moment the people in the mall stopped being shocked and actually started charging at them. The next thing he knew, his hands were tied up, a sack was thrown over his head, and he was taken captive. 

He doesn’t really remember much between getting locked in a room and Dennis finding him. He guesses that he passed out from being overtired, but the moment he had heard the door opening, he had snapped right out of his slumber and got to his knees. 

After having the sack yanked off his head, Dennis said, “Mac! What the hell?!”

“Dennis??” Mac had said. At that moment, he couldn’t be sure that the guy standing in front of him was Dennis or not-Dennis or a demon or something. “Is that you?!”

“Mac. Oh, Jesus Christ,” Dennis pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course it’s me, it’s always been me you delusional idiot. Where did you go before? You were meant to be my getaway driver.”

“I was trying to get away from fake Dennis!”

“Fake-” Dennis huffed, “It’s  _ me _ . There’s no other Dennis, it’s just me! Jesus. I can’t escape you, can I? You buffoon. Look, I just came here to get off, Mac. If you’re not going to-”

Mac got to his feet and punched Dennis in the face with his bounded hands which turned into more of a slap but he bet it hurt because the top of his left hand smarted with the impact.

Dennis recoiled, touching a hand to his cheek. “Jesu- what the hell, man?!”

Babying his sore face, Dennis glanced at Mac and he wore an expression Mac hadn’t seen in a long time. It was… vulnerable... And then they made love (which was kind of weird) and Dennis told him that he loved him and they’ve been living happily ever since! End of story, basically. 

Except it’s not an entirely happy ending because Dennis is currently missing the first half of Lethal Weapon [and his side of the story].

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The twins Gayle and Wayne are from Fargo s2, photo [here](https://www.sbs.com.au/programs/sites/sbs.com.au.programs/files/styles/body_image/public/fargo_bradandtoddmann_202_1222_cl_f2.jpg?itok=ApynrFkU&mtime=1470010929).


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two chapters ago reminder:  
> “Fake-” Dennis huffs, “It’s me. There’s no other Dennis, it’s just me! Jesus. I can’t escape you, can I? You buffoon. Look, I just came here to get off, Mac. If you’re not going to-”  
> Mac got to his feet and punched Dennis in the face with his bounded hands which turned into more of a slap but he bet it hurt because the top of his left hand smarted with the impact.  
> Dennis recoiled, touching a hand to his cheek. “Jesu- what the hell, man?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warning for v unsafe/rough sex and slightly dubcon, as what is suspected for an iasip fic.

Dennis babies his cheek in absolute disbelief that Mac just had the audacity to bitch slap him. That, and that Mac is here, in this city, in this hotel, in this very room with him. It’s like he can’t get away from Mac no matter how hard he tries. And yet, he’s relieved to see him… Plus, it’s not as if all Dennis has really been thinking about is finding Mac so that he can do to him exactly what this torture room is made for. 

_ ‘I told you that you’d find him again.’  _

“What?!” Dennis says aloud at the sound of his master’s voice in his head. “Where are you?!”

Dennis swivels around looking at every dark corner of room, scanning over the red velvet curtains that cloak every inch of wall, his eyes following the folds in the fabric and still he is certain that it is only Mac and himself in the room. 

“Where are you??” Dennis repeats. “I know you’re here!”

He scours the room once more. The flames on the candles flicker. He does not hear his master’s voice again. 

“I’m right here, dude,” Mac responds. 

Mac sounds concerned but Dennis hears it as a condescending statement. He winces at the pain in his cheek as he turns to snarl at Ronnie the Rat. This man, this pathetic, detestable person who wedges himself into every aspect of Dennis’ life whether he wants him there or not. He god damn  _ hates _ Mac. 

At that last thought, he lunges toward Mac who stumbles backward at the sudden movement. Dennis pushes Mac against the cushy wall and this close, he can feel Mac’s heart drumming inside him as strongly as he can hear it, and smell it, and he wants to taste it, to feel Mac’s pulse slow and cease on his throat, feel the life strings that puppet an idiot sever and die by his hands.

Mac’s tied up hands paw at Dennis’ stomach, a foot flat on Dennis’ shin and he can hear Mac asking him to stop but he should know that’s never stopped him before. He effortlessly pins Mac to the wall with the ball of his palm on Mac’s right shoulder and he wraps his other hand around Mac’s neck, his pinkie sliding underneath Mac’s left earlobe. The blood webbed underneath Mac’s skin drums a bassline to something tribal, a beat known to man for tens of thousands of years. 

Dennis spreads his lips over Mac’s neck, traps a hot breath around the taut muscle, feels the blood vibrating as he presses his tongue against Mac’s skin. He’s so hungry. Jesus Christ. He shuts his eyes. He can smell it down his throat, it’s so god damn close. He bites. 

“OWW!!!” 

Harder. Blood rising out of Dennis’ stomach and running out of his eyes, his ears, seeping out of every hair follicle on his head. Instead of bliss, the smell of New York sewer water sprays directly into his mouth. He tears away from Mac’s neck. Squared indents turn pink on Mac’s skin in lieu of two perfect circle incisions. 

“Stop biting me dude!” Mac cries, trying and failing to push Dennis away. “I don’t want to become a vampire!”

Away from Mac’s neck, the sewer water glides past him, over his head, in his mind, but he can still smell the stench so long as he lingers on the fantasy of draining Mac’s blood. He presses his face into the waterfall of sludge and opens his mouth to it and takes in the wretched taste as he clenches his teeth around Mac’s neck once more. He crunches hard even though he knows that his fangs are not ejecting. He pulls Mac’s skin together with his gnarled teeth, cinches the fragile muscle tissue and veins like his teeth are a rat trap that won’t let go. But the devil tosses a lighter into the sewers which ignites the chemicals and oils and gases that pollute the surface and Dennis falls to his knees with the taste and the smell and the denial of the holy water and the gift of the devil’s dirty water filling him in place. 

Dennis chokes on his want, smears away his wet dream of drinking blood so that he can breath the smoky crimson-soaked air of the room. He wipes his thumb over his ear hole and pulls away with his thumb dripping in blood. His precious blood, all that he has left, oozing from him and leaving him feeling weaker and weaker. He presses his forehead against Mac’s stomach. Mac tries to push him back with two hands on Dennis’ shoulder, his knee against Dennis’ sternum. 

“Help me, Mac,” Dennis sobs. “Help me feel something other than this.”

The knee against Dennis’ chest falls back, making Dennis slide down a little so that his lips graze the waistband of Mac’s trousers. He breathes heavily, his nose squashed against Mac’s firm abdomen, his chin on the slope of Mac’s clothed cock which stirs. An increasing throb which makes Dennis’ eyes roll back in their sockets. 

“Please,” he begs, mouthing against Mac but having to stop in futility. “I’m in agony.”

Dennis knows this is what Mac has always wanted. He has always known, he just never let it happen, never let it get that far. But right now, it’s what he needs right now. He needs something more than a handie or a drunken blowie. He needs a distraction. He needs to be encompassed with something other than the desire to satiate his hunger. He needs to feed what can be filled. He knows Mac will be more than willing to give him this. 

Dennis hums. He stretches his hand up the slope of Mac’s chest, pushing the fabric of Mac’s black T-shirt and smearing the blood from his thumb over Mac’s toned muscles. 

“Dennis,” Mac’s voice quavers. “I don’t want to die.”

“I’m not gonna hurt you yet, baby,” He coos. 

He lets the shirt drop. He sinks onto his ankles and starts to mouth Mac’s clothed cock. 

“Dennis, I’m just going through a lot of stuff right now and I don’t know if - nghh… dude,” Mac shoves his hands in front of Dennis’ face, forcing him to lift off. 

Dennis reveals a wry smile. He slides his hand underneath Mac’s and starts massaging Mac’s wanting cock. “You do want this, don’t you?”

He lifts Mac’s hands over his head and positions them over the back of his neck so that Mac hunches over a little, his arms open but his hands knotted in place. He then works on undoing Mac’s pants. 

“It’s been a long time, huh,” Dennis says absentmindedly. 

He unzips Mac’s trousers and hooks his hands over the waistband of the trousers only, shimmying them down. He leaves Mac’s boxers on for now, teasing Mac by running his tongue at the edge of his boxers, tasting the sweat on Mac’s skin, feeling his skin go taut as Mac’s cock hardens, blood vibrating skin on a wavelength only vampires can detect. 

“Bro there’s blood in your hair. Can we just pause for a minute and clean up? We can talk about-” 

“-Let’s not ruin it by talking.” Dennis punctuates the end of his sentence by snapping the waistband of Mac’s boxers halfway down his hips, low enough that Mac’s cock jumps out. 

Mac grunts. “At least untie me, dude.”

“No.”

At that, Dennis takes Mac’s hot cock into his mouth. Mac swallows as hard as his cock swells on Dennis’ tongue. His eyes flutter shut again.

“Don’t bite my cock off!” Mac cries. 

Dennis ignores him. Swirls his tongue around Mac’s head, and sucks. The sewer lid jostling in its fixture, an earthquake ready to rupture. To try and keep his composure, Dennis attempts to connect the pulsing blood away from the glorious visions of red spurting, to instead the semi-translucent visual of cum dribbling out of Mac’s cock. Instead of thinking about how he could give Mac a thousand tiny cuts and watch the blood ebb from those slits, he thinks about how much pressure it will be for Mac to pump pleasure out of just one slit. He thinks about how messy it will get, how slimy and sticky and stinky it will be in this room if Dennis milks Mac dry. 

Mac moans, spreads his fingers as wide as they’ll reach over Dennis’ damp hair - careless now in euphoria. He takes Mac deep in his throat, fills every gap and stamps down the lid to the sewers, blocks any escape with hot glue, Mac’s seed raining acid into his empty stomach. 

Mac always comes too soon. It’s what made their business before so easy when Dennis felt like messing around, and so easily forgettable too. Maybe he’s gone down on Mac more times than he can remember. But this time, he needs to remember it. That feeling of being filled, of his eyes tearing up from his mouth being pushed open so wide - he needs that to last longer. He needs to feel like that’s all he’ll ever feel. A lightning bolt in his stomach strikes the acidic water when he realises exactly what he needs. 

Mac leans his head back on the wall, heaving, his cock half hard in Dennis’ mouth. 

“I need you to fuck me, dude.” Dennis states. 

“Wha…?” Mac stammers, sliding down the wall now. 

Dennis grabs onto Mac’s waist and pulls him flat on the soft carpet. Mac’s shirt rises up, exposing the trail of hair that goes from Mac’s belly button to his pubes. Dennis wastes no time in yanking off Mac’s boxers and tossing them away. He gazes down at Mac’s half naked body. It’s preemptive to his experimentations, but it is one thing he has always wanted to at least  _ try  _ with Mac, only he’d never been quite so desperate to fill the hole inside him before. 

Dennis strips himself, his lip quirking when he pops off a button on his new designer suit. He kicks his clothes aside then, on his knees, moves toward Mac. He must look like a God in this warm light. Deep red and oranges behind him like a sunset, the candlelight illuminating the perfectly hewn lines in his Adonis-like body. He positions himself over Mac’s lap and bites his lip, runs a hand through his hair and tousles his curls. Even without his vampire senses being able to hear the blood coursing to Mac’s dick again, he knew that this would work. Anyone would be mad to not be turned on by his figure. He’s probably the hottest man in the world. Mac’s lucky to be in his presence. 

Dennis grinds his ass against Mac’s hardening cock, slick with Dennis’ spit. He draws a couple of fingers to his mouth, maintains eye contact with Mac as he lathers spit onto the two digits and draws them down his sculpted body, down between his legs and presses them into his hole. Mac’s cock jumps at the sight, his head nudging Dennis’ knuckles as he works himself. 

He carefully lowers himself on Mac, but he’s not quite erect enough for it to really do anything for Dennis. Isn’t Mac turned on right now? He tilts his body a different way, showing off his best side and hitches down on Mac’s cock and it’s slowly getting there, his fingers playing with Mac’s balls and the drums are starting to pick up their pace now. Throbbing in a more distinct pace, stronger, louder, Mac’s heart working hard to spread the blood evenly and fill his cock too. 

Mac sits up on his elbows. His face is flushed, sweat beads on his forehead. “This is going really fast, we’ve never uh, we’ve never-”

“You never wanted to,” Dennis shrugs. 

“YOU never wanted to!” Mac replies defiantly. 

“Well I want to now so just don’t enjoy it too much.”

“Dude what if I get AIDS??”

Dennis rolls his eyes, then groans a little as he holds Mac’s cock with his hand and thumbs his hole at the same time. “We’re clear. We checked, remember?”

“Yeah but you’re a vampire now so you’ve been … in contact with other people who might have AIDS. You could have it now, you don’t know!”

“It’s fine, vampires can’t get AIDS and my blood heals you so just, just shut up, will you? You’re ruining this for me.”

The more Mac talks, the more Dennis starts to seethe. He could easily leave the room right now and go into one of the other torture rooms and have a much less annoying time there. He might even be able to be the torturer, rather than the tortured. But he’s here and he’s gotten this far and the blow job helped to keep the sickness at bay for the short time that it lasted and what if the pain and the pleasure of anal sex is even better? What if it gives him something to think about for days after? That’s better than wallowing in his own self-pity. 

“Dennis, I’m-”

Mac doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Dennis grabs Mac’s almost fully erect cock and starts pressing it against his hole. 

“Come on, man, I know you’ve always wanted this,” Dennis says. 

“Shit dude...” Mac says, falling flat on the carpet in bliss as Dennis pushes passed the head of Mac’s cock. 

Slightly wetted skin rubs against his own. Dennis slams his hips down and envelops his ass over Mac’s hard cock entirely, immediately bringing tears to his eyes. He gasps at the pain, a prickling burn. Mac moans and his eyebrows contorted in concern but his mouth goes slack with pleasure. Dennis leaves himself skewered for a moment, feeling Mac’s cock throb inside him, feels himself break more than he’s already broken.

Then he lifts up, and down, and feels himself split open, feels Mac’s cock swell into the widening channel and close in around every space Dennis makes to breathe. And he repeats this. Lifting up, slamming down, tantalisingly slow because it hurts and he wants Mac to last. Wants this to last. Wants to feel the fire that ignites not his stomach but the endless chasm inside him and feel the burn for eternity.

Dennis begins to stroke himself now that he has found a rhythm. To his surprise, Mac sits up and Dennis thinks he’s going to try to kiss him but he does something even better. He nudges his wrist against Dennis’ waist and then thigh and Dennis can see something in Mac’s glazed over eyes. This is it. No one would be able to tell just by listening to the stupid shit Mac says, and sure he claims he’s a top, but he always says it with such an air of righteousness that its plausibility can so easily be denied. Yet, in this instant, Dennis knows he’s about to be taken.

It makes him grin that he’s pushed Mac over the edge. He hides a low giggle with the sound of pushing the trolley aside, the utensils clattering on the metal tray. He positions himself on all fours and he feels Mac magnetise to him, slapping his front to Dennis’ end and Mac’s cock bumps Dennis’ balls.

“Jesus Christ it’s so hot in here,” Mac complains.

“What did I say about talking??” Dennis says, reaching around to slap Mac’s thigh. 

“Oh yeah, sorry Den.”

Mac drops his hands over Dennis’ tailbone. Dennis arches his back low like a cat, the carpet scratching against his knees. He finds it momentarily amusing that he thought he’d be the one to torture Mac when it’s truly the other way around. Maybe his determination to find Mac again was never anything to do with wanting to torture him - he can do that with anyone he isn’t emotionally attached to - maybe it’s more to do with just because it’s  _ Mac _ . He hates Mac, finds him unimaginably annoying, but the fact of the matter is that he  _ needs _ Mac. He needs Mac to do to him what he won’t let any other. And what would he do if Mac grew old without him? What would he do if Mac died and Dennis kept on living and had no one who understood him? 

The thing is, he hasn’t felt like himself until he saw Mac. Which means he needs Mac to be a vampire so that he can continue on as they are, forever. He can’t do without it. He needs Mac physically right now but he’ll need him emotionally too, to make him feel like he has power when he feels utterly powerless. That’s what Mac’s doing for him right now. Reminding Dennis of what it’s like to feel in control. 

Mac probes Dennis’ hole again with his cock, and this time, with more spit slick coverage, he slides in. Dennis is about to instruct Mac to not hold back, but he doesn’t have to because Mac gets to pounding into him hard. He knows he’s going to get carpet burn but at this point it’s all part of the pleasure. Dennis folds his arms in front of him and rests his forehead on his forearm and chews at his wrist while Mac makes him feel like another universe is being created inside him. 

He moans and whacks his fist against the carpet and his fangs slide into his own skin like it’s never been a problem and Mac takes the force of every stupid and awful fight they’ve ever had and channels it into Dennis. It’s what he wants, to feel so overwhelmingly bad because it’s better than the default. Only he knows that at this rate, in this organic, terminal state, Mac isn’t going to last forever, so Dennis has to take in everything he can while it’s happening, while he has Mac’s thick cock repeatedly slamming against his prostate, while his throat is so dry that every intake of breath feels like sandpaper against brick, while Mac’s hands are sliding and grabbing over Dennis’ back and while he can acutely hear Mac’s balls rising just before he cums. 

Mac shoots his seed into Dennis with a disgusting groan. Dennis crunches his jaw together, his fangs slicing through his wrist as the hot semen bursts inside him. It’s Dennis’ ultimate pleasure to cum free-handedly - which he does so in this moment, propelled over the edge by Mac’s relentless speed and the burn and the two of them pulsing together like they’re the heart of the room. He then sags to the carpet but not without an arm pulling Mac down with him. 

Mac keeps himself lodged into Dennis and flops onto his back. Mac’s hot, ragged breath blowing over Dennis’ sweaty skin. The room is a blur to Dennis right now. The trolley in the corner of the room glistens in the warm light, the tip of the katana sword pokes out near the wheels, the candles drip wax into catchment trays underneath the candelabra stands. 

Delightfully, Dennis aches. 

“Oh dude, you’re bleeding again,” Mac says, plucking Dennis’ arm off his waist. 

Mac holds Dennis’ arm in the air, expecting Dennis to say something but when their eyes meet, Mac notices Dennis’ fangs extended and he lets go of Dennis, his face paling. 

Dennis lifts his arm behind him and tucks his wrist behind his head. He breathes heavily. “There’s nothing I can do about it.”

Mac sits up. Dennis’ cock lays limp and dirty against his thigh. 

“Can’t you just… drink some blood or whatever?” Mac asks, inching away from Dennis now. 

“Obviously I can’t,” Dennis huffs. 

Mac reaches with both hands for the trolley and pulls the wheels along the carpet and starts looking at all the things on top and in the drawers. “There’s gotta be something here…”

Mac finds something in plastic and tears it open with great difficulty due to having his hands still bound.

“Dude don’t bother. Nothing’s gonna-” he stops the moment he smells blood being exposed and becomes intoxicated by the smell, as powerful as the smell that comes out of a Subway. 

He draws himself to the nearest wall and slopes his body against it, eyeing Mac. He’s got something in his fist and is crawling toward Dennis now. He closes his eyes, focusing on the sensation of his asshole gaping, on the burn that simmers his insides. 

Mac sidles up to Dennis’ side, his knees pressed against Dennis’ thighs. Dennis can hear Mac hesitating, the anxiety audible in his blood, but he doesn’t want to hear it. Wants to feel the fire engulfing him again. He flinches when Mac touches a soft, wet cloth to his wrist, a stark feeling to his imagination drenched in heat. 

“Oh that actually, that actually feels really good. What is it?”

Mac scrutinises the packaging, the plastic crackling his his hands. “It’s… 

Dennis catches himself. “No, no. Stop. Don’t tell me. It’s better that I don’t know what it is. All that matters is that it’s working.”

With his eyes still closed, he peels off the damp cloth and shows Mac that the wound he had gouged into his own wrist is absorbing whatever’s in the cloth and is healing him slowly. 

“That’s so cool.”

“You should be flattered,” Dennis says, raising his chin. “I did this to myself because it felt good. You were… you performed pretty good.”

Dennis opens his eyes slightly to see Mac’s face light up. “I did?”

“Oh yeah, but it was probably the shortest sex I’ve ever experienced. Once I make you a vampire, you can last as long as me. Hours, even.”

Mac crosses his legs, his shirt casting a shadow over his lap, and he starts to wring his wrists. “Dennis, I really don’t want to…”

“You don’t want to - you don’t want to have sex for longer than five minutes?” Dennis mocks. 

“That was totally longer than five minutes,” Mac replies.

Dennis raises an eyebrow. “I was being generous with five minutes.”

Mac pauses. “I meant that I don’t want to become a vampire.”

“Dude,” Dennis looks at him, eyes wide. “Why the hell not?”

Mac crosses his arms. “It’s sinful.”

“Oh it’s… it’s sinful? It’s SINFUL. Yeah, dude, like anything you’ve ever done has been pure.”

“When I die, I want to go to heaven.”

“Well I don’t want you to die,” Dennis snaps, then gapes at how that could be taken. “I mean, you’re my best friend and best friends do everything together including becoming vampires and living for eternity together. And look, if you really want to do the whole Catholicism thing, be my guest. You can have as many centuries as you like repenting for all the bad shit you’ve done in your life so far. But trust me, living to your full potential as a vampire is ten times better than trying to repent your whole life. Imagine the schemes we could actually get away with! Come on, we’re a good team, aren’t we?”

“Country Mac said that when vampires die they don’t go to heaven or hell and I don’t want that. I want to go to heaven. So,” Mac pauses to take a deep breath. “I’m sorry Dennis but I’m not going to be a vampire.”

Dennis levels his gaze. He almost cannot contain his derisive laughter at such a statement coming from someone who was so absolutely convinced that they were a vampire even against all logical evidence. 

“Oh, I know why you aren’t saying anything. It’s because I mentioned Country Mac. Yeah, turns out he’s a vampire.”

“Of course he is. He’s so badass,” Dennis says, knowing that it would piss Mac off. Dennis hops to his feet and finds his suit and starts putting his clothes back on. He says chuffly, “You’ll change your mind. I’ll find out how to make you a vampire and you’ll have changed your mind by then.”

Dennis moves the wet cloth onto his dick and wipes himself clean, relishing at the tingling sensation the cloth gives off wherever it touches his skin. He then tosses the soiled thing elsewhere and finishes getting changed. 

“Wait, Dennis! Are we leaving? You didn’t untie me!” Mac says, moving toward his boxers. 

“You’ll manage,” Dennis says. He moves toward the door and peers out into the hallway. The dude who had brought him here seems to be gone. Perfect. “Come on. I don’t know how long we’ve got.”

“Okay, jeez. What’s the rush dude?”

“You’re a prisoner, remember? Get your pants, come on. I’ll take you to my hotel room.”

“You’ve got a room here?” Mac asks as he stumbles toward the door with one foot in his trousers. 

“Yep. That’s another perk of being a vampire. I can just ask for whatever I want and they’ll give it to me.”

Dennis ushers Mac into the hallway. He’s annoyed to no end that Mac wants to live out his mortal life but there’s a reason locks on rooms exist and that’s to lock people inside until they change their minds on very important decisions that Dennis has imposed on them.

So that’s what he does.

Mac seems happy enough. Seems to think that Dennis is going to return in time to watch a movie with him, which he may do, possibly, but in the meantime, he can hatch a plan to get this Varga figure so that he can turn Mac sooner rather than later. He wouldn’t want to push Mac’s aging appearance any further than it already is, after all, Mac will become useless to Dennis if he doesn’t have the vigour of Mac’s 40-something year old self. He’s sure it won’t take  _ years _ to take Varga down. Hell, it could even happen tomorrow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's gonna be another while guys! i promise this fic is coming to an end real soon - as soon as i can! thanks to everyone still reading!! <3


	31. In the radiant city

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dee, The Waitress and Wes Wrench are en route to follow up on Wes’ lead at Minneapolis HQ. 
> 
> Meanwhile, Ruby Goldfarb interviews potential candidates for her own cause.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg i'm so sorry it's been so long since I updated. Lots of things have been happening! anyway, i'm determined to finish this fic and i've finally had some time to work on this chapter.
> 
> Chapter warnings: dee being predatory and borderline rapey, because lest we forget Dee’s a creep in canon as well

At 80mph, Dee takes her stinking new car over the I-80, the names of tiny towns are forgotten as fast as she speeds past them. She should be enjoying the smooth ride - no straining engine noises, all comfort features intact and functional, no stains on the seat covers and not a single member of the gang to annoy her. Except her company is Wes who won’t pay her a second of attention except to become angry with her when she doesn’t take the specific route that he wants her to take -- as if she could read his mind let alone understand rapid sign language. And The Waitress, someone who she had thought to be so unremarkable that she forgot they even went to the same high school, but who had wedged herself into Dee’s life due to Charlie’s dumb obsession with her and her dumb obsession with Dennis.

Dee does find it amusing that Charlie’s finally getting the obsessive behaviour returned but not in a way he’s going to like. She’s not bothered with reminding The Waitress that if she tries to hurt Charlie, she’ll get messed up just as bad, because she doesn’t think that The Waitress is actually going to go through with her part of the bargain with Wes. No, the only joy she’s gaining in this long road trip is scheming a way to humiliate her, bed her cousin, and steal Dennis away before The Waitress can ruin Dee reuniting with her brother. 

Wes insists they pass Chicago in favour of filling the tank at a smaller gas station. Dee wonders if being out in the open with no cameras around makes them more vulnerable but Wes explains that it means there are less factors to take into account. A vampire can hide in too many places in a big city -- which is why, he emphasises, this mission to Minneapolis is so dangerous. 

After paying for the gas and a bag of gummy snakes, she jumps back in the car and wedges the open packet between her legs. “Tell him I’m not worried. I’ll be safe with him.”

The Waitress shoves her stupid face in between the front seats. “He can’t come inside the HQ with us, remember? They want him hung.”

Dee rolls her eyes. She keys the car into ignition. “Obviously I’m not going to put myself in danger until we know more information about where Malvo has my brother.”

“Oh so I have to go alone, do I? Me? The woman with a newborn baby? Yeah, that seems totally fair.” 

Dee shrugs before taking the car back onto the highway. The Waitress drops into the back seat and folds her arms.

It’s all part of her plan. As soon as they get to Minneapolis, The Waitress can go off and try and do whatever it is Wes wants her to do at the Vampire Hunter HQ, leaving Wes to herself at which point she’ll take full advantage of him. The Waitress will then return having been turned away from the HQ because she’s a hopeless idiot who isn’t even good at the job in her namesake, and then Dee can further prove her brilliance by stepping up where The Waitress has failed. 

It’s a foolproof plan. And she won’t lie; the prospect of getting dicked down is not a bad motivation. That, and getting to make her brother feel exactly how much he has hurt her. 

She steps on the gas. 

  
  


 

Wes becomes visibly agitated the moment they arrive in the city but Dee pays no mind to him, preoccupied with making The Waitress look up the highest rated hotels in the city on her phone and choosing the one closest to the HQ. Surprisingly a high quantity of 5-star rated hotels show up in the search results. Dee picks the Stussy Supermall luxury suites, conveniently situated right across the street from where The Waitress is going to make an utter fool of herself. 

She wishes her company knew how to behave at a classy establishment. The Waitress looks like a junkie holding the bag of ammo close to her chest, and Wes looks equally suspicious. It’s on Dee to carry herself into the foyer with all the glamour that her sleep deprived and unwashed self can manage. The money on her card speaks for itself anyway. She books the most expensive room for herself and Wes, learning from her mistake last time and not booking a second room at all. 

Dee cannot manage to lose The Waitress fast enough. The bitch insists on having a shower in Dee’s room first. While The Waitress cleans up, Dee kicks off her shoes and lays down on her king size bed sensually, ensuring that the collar of her t-shirt hangs low around her chest and that the pink elastic of her underwear peeks out of her low rise jeans. Dee knows that something she’s doing is working because the way Wes lays out various small handguns on the table and slowly slots bullets into their chambers is positively erotic to watch. 

Dee catches sight of herself in the mirrored wardrobes opposite the bed. She’s not as vain as her brother but she knows how to look and feel hot when her libido is as high as it is. Dee squints at her form reflected in the mirror, bounces her hair and lays it seductively around her neck and shoulders, then casts her eyes back to Wes. Looking at the man handle the guns reminds her of her father, because her brain is that messed up.

She tries to push out the image of Frank sat on a chair with a couple of cushions under his fat ass for a booster, a lit cigar between his teeth, his stubby fingers working on shoving metal bullets into the clip of a revolver. She does not want to think about how her dad used to make a show of loading his guns in front of the help so that they would accept a low pay grade. What she wants to think about is Wes’ big hands deftly lining silver bullet after silver bullet into the chamber. She wants to focus on the way his fingers slide against the shape of the gun, the way they could slide against the taut muscles of her thighs and how his first two fingers can push into her cunt. 

Dee’s mouth drops open, her tongue at the front of her mouth just behind her teeth. She runs her fingers on the skin of her abdomen, her nails cutting along the denim of her jeans. She feels so stupid about how she was after Dennis died -- after she thought he had died. She was angry, she was disbelieving that he had actually died -- God, she should have believed her gut feeling. What she did with Artemis was just sad. She can hear her brother’s voice telling her exactly what it was. Pathetic. And looking back on herself then, on that person who went home with Artemis after the funeral, who made the first move and kissed Artemis… It wasn’t her. She knows that the funeral wasn’t that long ago but it feels otherworldly to look back on the last few weeks up to this point. This right now -- Dee in the kind of hotel her family class deserves, with a hot piece of ass tantalising her, waiting patiently for her to screw him blind -- that’s who she is. Becoming a vampire assassin might just be what she has been missing to truly complete her life. 

Unfortunately The Waitress ruins her powerful reverie by exiting the bathroom and immediately starting up an angry sign conversation with Wes. She ends up grabbing a gun and shoves it and a handful of ammo into her pockets and, finally, she heads out. As soon as The Waitress’ heels pass the threshold of the door, Dee slams it shut, sealing herself inside her luxurious suite with Wes, finally alone with him. 

Her first order of action is to strip down to her underwear. She pulls off her shirt first, then slowly steps out of her jeans, watching as Wes teased her by slowly popping the bullets into another gun. She shivers, her body tingling with anticipation. It’s been a long time since she’s gotten her rocks off with a hot piece of meat, she can hardly wait to jump him and erase all memory of ever thinking she could have had something going with Artemis. 

With that last point of motivation in mind, she stalks over to Wes and nudges his thighs open by pushing her knee against his right thigh. He doesn’t let go of the gun when he looks up at her, his eyes wide. Dee grins, then climbs onto his lap, fitting her legs around his waist. She hears the gun clatter on the table as he drops the weapon, moving to grab hold of the rim of the table for support. From here, Dee pulls her hair to one side and with her other hand, deftly unhooks her bra. She lets it slide off her body, the silky fabric making her skin tingle, and her chest flutters with heat and excitement when she notices how well endowed Wes is beneath her panties. 

“God, you are so hot,” she says, looking down at his junk bundled away in his jeans. 

The next minute, Wes places his hands on her waist and she feels him lift her up. She soaks in the warmth of his hands and the feel of his fingers spread out around her hips and then instead of swooping her toward the bed, she finds herself standing up. She eagerly takes the lead, grabbing hold of his hands before he can move them elsewhere and pulls him toward the bed but he stays in place like a deadweight. He turns toward the table and Dee gets the picture. He liked what he saw earlier. She’s meant to coax him onto the bed as she was doing before, if only The Waitress hadn’t been there at all. 

She clambers on top of the satin sheets, facing away from him. She flips her hair and looks over her shoulder with her thumbs hooked around the thin strap of her panties, sees that he’s still playing hard to get at the table, and looks in front of her as she tugs her panties down and off her outstretched legs, one by one. She folds herself back onto the bed, knowing that she hasn’t got much of an ass to entice a man with but going into a show knowing all the tricks in the book to make it looks like she does. It’s all about the body position, about bending just the right way to make the trick of the light cast a more voluptuous vision than there actually is. Then she twists the upper half of her body to reveal the swell of her breasts, and slides her hand down her torso, curving over and into her pouch. The moment her middle finger slides into her wet pussy, she looks over her shoulder to see if he’s got his dick out yet, and instead sees that he’s holding up a message. 

She ignores it. Heat floods to her ears. Focus.

Her eyes flit away from Wes and glance off the reflection of herself in the adjacent wardrobe. The expensive looking satin sheets crinkle around her knees, the colour of the fabric complementing the shade of her skin. She traces the shape of her body, tapers her gaze along the sharp angles of her legs and arms and around curves where they should be softer, except for the hard points of her nipples. She threads another finger inside herself, working, preparing herself for an undoubtedly thick cock going by the size of the man and the formidable bulge she had felt just before. 

“Like the show?” Dee asks the empty side of the room. “You must be so hard, holding yourself back like that...”

She moans, a sound which contorts in surprise when Wes suddenly rounds the bed and shoves a piece of paper in her face. 

Shaky black lettering spells out what took Mac over a decade to admit out loud. She doesn’t believe it. She’s seen the way has Wes looked at her. He wants her, as badly as she wants him, if not more. She snatches the paper, crushes it in one fist then lets it drop out of her hand as she turns to grabbing onto Wes’ belt. In half a second she runs her thumb along the leather and finds the belt buckle and she manages to get it loose right before Wes pushes her onto the bed.

She lands on her back and the bounce of the mattress shocks her for a moment, then she draws her knees underneath her chin and wraps her arms around her legs. Wes hastily does his belt back up again, his eyes avoiding her. It feels as if someone has thrust their hand through her spine and snatched her stomach, and they’re currently yanking it down through the entanglement of all of her other organs and trying to pull her guts through the bed and the plush carpet underneath the frame and down below, but her body won’t let go and instead everything just gets tighter.

She feels like a large heat lamp is shining above her. It dries her muscles into hard plastic shapes, like she’s a human body in a school science lab and everyone’s pulling out parts of her. Taking out her organs and throwing them across the room. A desert heat in her mouth. She wishes she could do a bump. Needs something to push out her subconsciousness dredging up images of her brother looming over her, shrouded in dark clouds and derisive laughter, gleefully pulling out her lungs and her heart and her uterus. Her mother beside him, judging her empty husk of a body, coiling Dee’s stringy veins around her finger. And her father sinking into the shape of Wes. She can never please anyone. 

  
  


As Ruby returns to her suite, she has to lean against the wall in the hallway to ease the pressure off her ankles. How many times has she wished that she had not been so blind to her son’s wickedness and had instead been the one to assume the body of Genghis Khan’s general? Perhaps then she might have had the ankles of a woman in her 40s rather than one in her 60s. What a world of a difference it would have made to not require the blood of painkiller-addicted humans to make it possible to walk in high heels for hours on end. 

With only a little way to walk to her suite, she decides to unstrap her heels. As she does so, she hears a commotion in the room on the other side of the wall. There are two humans inside; a man and a woman. She does not care to listen in as she has spent much of the day deciphering the blood maps of human brains and she’d like to attend to the guests waiting patiently for her in her room, however the two energies beyond the wall strikes her as interesting. The heartbeat in the woman is low-set, rapid, as if in the midst of determined lovemaking, and the man’s blood, in contrast, pumps hollow and fearful. 

Suddenly, the woman cries, “Screw you Wes!”

Ruby pushes off the wall and falls back on the one behind her, leaving her shoes on the carpet beside the door the woman proceeds to barge out of, naked. Her blonde hair falls over her face as she bends down to yank on her jeans and a loose t-shirt. Once material is covering her appropriately, she sinks to the ground, seating herself on top of Ruby’s shoes. She clutches her head in her hands and knots her fingers in her sweat-matted hair. Ruby remains quiet, watching all of this take place. She listens to the way the woman’s lungs struggle to calm her breathing, to the way her blood surges through her veins, to the way her cerebral blood flow pulses in places of the brain where it shouldn’t, considering what she had just tried to do - and how that was received by her partner. And, most interestingly, where blood does not fill - the synapses of a psychopath who lacks empathy. 

The blonde seems to notice that she’s sitting on something uncomfortable, and pulls the high heels out from underneath her. She wields the two shoes like weapons, her knuckles going white as she clenches onto the heels. 

“Oh Wes, you bastard. You dumb idiot. You stupid, deaf, savage. You’re not the alpha here, you crust-ass fool. Oh, I’m going to fuck you over so bad. Your little revenge plan? I’m going to find your mark and I’m going to destroy him before you can get sweet peace. Make a fool of me, I’ll make a fool of you! I’m a Golden Goddess! Who are you?! Savage! Idiot!!”

She roars, a sound which makes Ruby’s skin crawl. Then she watches the woman peg one of her shoes as hard as she can. It whacks against the wall just inches away from Ruby, who lets out a gasp. The blonde then looks up into Ruby’s eyes, maintains fierce eye contact, then snaps the heel of the remaining shoe clean off.

“You wanna try me, bitch?! I WILL SHOVE THIS DOWN YOUR THROAT! I WILL FIND YOUR UGLY ASS GRANDCHILDREN AND I WILL MAKE THEM CHOKE ON THEIR OWN SHOES! I WILL DESTROY YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY TREE IF YOU EVEN TRY ME!!”

Ruby smiles. “I certainly hope so.”

The blonde’s brow furrows. “Wait - what?! You’re not supposed to - no one’s ever…” She stares off, her lower lip caught between her teeth. 

It strikes Ruby as odd that she should find the right kind of person after having interviewed each one of her son’s environmentalists. Her meetings with all candidates only supported her hypothesis that her son has truly lost his marbles. He believes them to be pious in their commitment to nature, but they are far from capable of becoming loyal disciples with their own volition, and her son is far from a prophet charismatic enough to inspire the bravery that they lack. Rather, this woman she has encountered by chance may just be the person she can use to help deal with her son. 

The blonde wipes her face with her hands and pulls at her face. Her large eyes peel as wide as they can stretch. Ruby holds out her hand to help the woman get to her feet, but it is not taken, so she folds her hand back into the opposing sleeve of her fur coat and her palms curl around her elbows. The blonde remains on the ground, her body still trembling with rage. 

“What’s your name, darling?” Ruby asks. 

The blonde wrinkles her face at Ruby as she gets to her feet. “You shouldn’t leave your shoes in the hallway,” she says, kicking the broken heel toward Ruby. 

“It’s fine, I hated those shoes anyway,” Ruby shrugs. “I asked for your name.”

Her new friend delivers more openly with the lick of Ruby’s spell, “Dee.”

Ruby purses her lips. “Down on your luck?”

Dee pulls up her jeans a little higher and does up the zip and button she had left loose. She smooths her hair and pouts her quivering lips, trying to tame the anger that continues to ripple through her. 

“I asked if you were down on your luck,” Ruby says, nodding toward the hotel room.

Dee’s face turns sour. “That’s none of your business.”

Dee makes to leave but Ruby catches her by the arm. 

“Ew, let me go, old lady! Don’t touch me!” Dee says, trying with great effort to shake loose from Ruby’s grip - how rude! “Why are you so strong?!”

“Someone told me an alteration of a saying recently, I think you might find it interesting,” Ruby tells her, “If you love something, let it go. If it comes back, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, hunt it down and kill it. A man told me that neat little addition to the original saying. I quite like it. It’s safe to say that the man who told me that is now deceased.” Having gained the woman’s interest, though she appears to take great care in not revealing it, Ruby introduces herself as her most recent alias. “My friends call me Ruby. I’m here to broker a business deal. I work in storage, you see. My late husband and I started in mortuaries - just another kind of storage.”

Dee’s eyes narrow at her lies, a level of skepticism that the environmentalists were each too naive to consider.

In a swift movement, Ruby hooks her arm through Dee’s and begins leading her down the hall. She gives Dee’s arm a squeeze. “Gosh! You’re so skinny! My, what a reason, if any, to formally invite you to my boudoir.”

Dee’s step slows against Ruby’s, trying to use the mismatched speed to free herself from Ruby’s tight grip. “Let go of me! I wanna go get plastered.”

Ruby laughs. “Oh darling, after the way he treated you? Who could judge? Come join me. My boyfriends and I are drinking rosé. You’ll be a perfect addition to our party. I’m so terribly desperate for the company of women!”

Her last words strike a chord inside Dee that makes her anger reignite. Dee stops steadfast and tries to yank her arm out of Ruby’s hold but ends up pulling them both to the ground because Ruby won’t let go. She rights the two of them and pins Dee to her side like a squealing pig, and continues to lead her down the hall. 

She returns to her casual conversation. “Don’t you ever get tired of being around men? Women have much to offer.”

“Women only get in my way,” Dee grumbles. 

Ruby leans close to Dee and evens her tone, “Relax, darling. You’re in no danger.”

Her attempts at calming her potential friend has minimal effect. From the outside, Dee looks nothing more than like an unsettled relative forced to attend a family gathering against her will, but on the inside, unsettled is an understatement for the ferocity that stews inside Dee and fuels her uncooperativeness. A rather good sign for Ruby’s requirements, but a hassle to herd into her private space. 

“My boys will be excited to see you. I’m afraid they’re quite bored of me,” Ruby comments. She purses her lips, eyeing Dee, then strongly emphasises her next spell, “I think you’d like to come inside.”

Dee likens to the suggestion, though Ruby notes Dee’s inner chaos which insists on wearing down any bridge to calmness.

Dee surprises Ruby by enquiring about her offer. “By boys do you mean children or…”

“Adults. Finely matured men,” Ruby replies candidly. She only wishes her son could have been as well behaved and loyal as her gentlemen company. Then she wouldn’t have to orchestrate his death. 

“Okay,” Dee acquiesces, “But if it turns out to be a bunch of crusty old men wanting to have an orgy with me, I’m out of here.”

“Heavens no, what do you take me for? A pimp?”

Dee gives Ruby a judgemental look. “Lady, you’re wearing a fur coat and you’ve asked me to come to your room. That’s peak pimp behaviour.”

Ruby smiles in amusement, only to have the genuinity of the expression wiped from her face when she shows her guest into her sitting room and hears that her workmen have not finished their work in the next room. Dee, however, does not seem to be bothered by the loud drilling noise. Instead she is enamoured by Ruby’s handsome men lounging around the sitting room. Mario graciously drapes his gown to the side of his loung and invites Dee to sit next to him. The way in which Dee snatches the spot ensures Ruby that she does not need to emphasise her spell to ease Dee’s residual anger. 

With her guest seated and distracted, Ruby saunters into the kitchen. She opens the secret door and asks her workmen to please keep the sound down while she entertains guests. She shuts the door and sets about preparing her guest food and drink. She selects a delicate gilded plate and slides a slice of cake onto it, adjacent to a shiny silver dessert fork, then selects a wine out of her vintage collection. She takes a moment to appreciate the gold trimmed white porcelain complementing the red fudge cake, and appreciates the organic hues of grape wine in the glass amongst the serenity of her hotel suite and the quiet, sophisticated chatter of her company. 

From there, her mind wanders to take in her room, too. The remodelers have done an excellent job at combining three separate hotel rooms into one lavish sitting room even though they have not finished the extra little space she had requested. Nevertheless, she is content to lavish in the completed space.  Her designers were able to source chic French furniture from storage in Quebec, in a sense putting some truth to her Minnesotan alias. The palettes are pristine white with gold edges, and hints of lavender hues. Perhaps the most laborious job had been stripping the carpet off and white washing the floorboards. Her son really has no taste for design. He likes money, as all do, but he does not have an eye for how to fill a space with beautiful things, or how to light a room where sun cannot. Due to his haste in readiness over design, she has only recently been able to truly enjoy the space she may call home. Perhaps she may even stay here for longer than half a century, so long as the pending interview with her guest proves fruitful. 

As she collects the wine and plate to serve, she hears the drilling begin as loud as it was before. Unfortunate, really, but necessary, she supposes. She serves her guest and sets the bottle of wine on a low coffee table nearby. She watches Dee scull the first glass of wine, then rush to pour herself another glass before sculling that too. 

“I do apologise about the noise. Don’t let it waiver you from taking a look around. I spent quite some time remodelling and am as eager as my men to hear compliments,” Rubys says conversationally. Dee does look around the room but she gives no compliment of taste, except to scathe her men with lustful eyes. Ruby says of them, “They really don’t mind being ogled.”

Dee downs her third glass of wine and empties the bottle entirely. “You’re not-” She burps, “-Making your case any stronger that you aren’t a pimp.”

Dee sits back, eyeing Mario who lounges beside her, one leg over his knee, his elegant satin gown buttoned up to cover his ravaged throat. 

“I don’t pay them, darling. They enjoy their forms being gazed upon. I do apologise about Mario’s modesty, he prefers the appreciation of his face.”

“Oh no, I can tell he’s built,” Dee says approvingly. She gazes around the room, eyeing each of the men and landing on Nico who is currently posing by the faux mantelpiece, his toned body looking particularly sparkling under the silvery sheer suit he dons. “Mario’s smokin’. All of you. That’s a… that’s a compliment - see, you’re all taking that very well and - honestly, did no one teach Wes how to be grateful when someone gives them a good show? You see a good body, you have to respond! It’s common courtesy, it’s -  look at me! I’m an actress! I’m practically a movie star and he said no to this?!”

“He sounds crazy,” Mario says, his fingers playing with the frilled collar around his neck. 

“Right?!” Dee grins maniacally. “Technically he’s gay but I’ve had sex with gay guys before and - look, I’m not the bad guy here! I saw the way he looked at me! He’s into me! Women - we know these things. I can tell when a guy is into me, he’s-”

“And yet, he rejected you.”

Dee stares at her wide eyed. 

“You’ll kill him for it?” Ruby suggests, as she had heard the woman say so earlier. 

“Damn right,” Dee says without a second thought, “No one humiliates Sweet Dee! Not anymore. No, I get enough of it from the gang, I’m--”

Dee continues to rant, a similar tirade as the one she had made upon exiting her own room, and her voice only rises to match that of the drilling in the next room. Ruby sips her wine, watching more than listening. She notices that Dee’s blood is no step closer to calmness, so she decides that she better get to questioning before Dee’s rage is too powerful and resists Ruby’s orders. However, before she begins her examination, she realises that none of her other friends are eating her red velvet cake. 

“My friends, won’t you eat the velvet cake I made for this very gathering of ours?”

Her men startle. Dessert forks clatter on plates and in near unison, they each shovel a portion of the cake into their mouths. Ruby smiles amidst a backdrop of choking. 

Dee looks at her plate dubiously.  “What’s wrong with it?”

Ruby raises an eyebrow. “It’s just chocolate cake dyed red.”

Dee tentatively takes one bite. 

“I love to bake, but I can only bake one thing well!” She laughs. She goes to sit on the lounge opposite her new friend, Henry and Takashi quickly vacating the space for her. “Tell me about yourself, Sweet Dee. Where have you travelled from?”

Another easy question. Dee comfortably replies, “Philadelphia.”

And now a harder one. Ruby nods. “Such a long way. And what brings you here? Your man? Wes, is he important to you?”

“No.”

“No - to what?”

“Wes. He’s dead to me.”

“Ah. So you will kill him only figuratively.”

“No,” Dee says tersely, “I’ll kill him for real.”

“And then what?”

Dee stammers. “And then…”

“Are you perhaps... aimless, in life?” Ruby asks, hopeful. 

Dee puts down her fork. She appears to fight the admission of truth with a startling amount of strength. 

“I’m trying to find my brother.”

Ruby sighs and sinks into the cushions of her lounge. “Ah, a family mission. How boring. Does he matter to you so much?”

Dee cuts herself another corner of the cake and crunches down on the fork, clenching her teeth around the metal before saying, “I thought he was dead but he’s not.”

“Figuratively, or literally?”

“I mean I thought he got shot to death but actually he survived that by some miracle and didn’t think to tell me that he’s still alive.”

Ruby sits up. “He survived the impossible? How do you mean?”

Dee refuses to answer. 

“Darling, you can tell me,” Ruby says, inviting the truth out of her subject, “We’re all friends here.”

Dee defies delivering an honest answer. Ruby waits, maintaining eye contact, but Dee displays formidable mental strength in not relenting. 

Ruby sits forward. “Your silence tells me that you know more of what is happening here than you let on. Your brother, he did not survive by chance, say, a bullet missing vital organs? Answer me, girl. At least, tell me that you’re intelligent.”

“Of course I am, I’m smarter than anyone I know.”

Ruby scoffs in frustration. “You answered that, so tell me, how did your brother die, yet not die?”

Dee clenches her fork like a weapon. The drilling ceases for a moment, as if to allow for the eruption of tension in the room. “What the hell are you doing to me you bitch?!”

Ruby sits back, allowing an air of kindness to wash over her. “I’m simply getting to know you, my friend.”

“I’m not your friend! You’re some old creep who’s invited me to her room!”

“Then why did you agree to join me?”

“I don’t know! You made me! You forced me!” She stands up, knocking her plate to the ground. 

“I took you by the arm and you came on your own,” Ruby replies, her voice even, “How else would a woman of my age, of my level of weakness, corral a young woman such as yourself into my private room, if not by your own choice?”

Dee grits her teeth, blood shooting through her veins at such a great speed. 

“I did to you what you could not do to your man, to Wes. I made you abandon your wishes to drink your worries away and face what could have been. I’m showing you this, what I can do to you - you, the failure, the rejected. It’s my gift to you to show you that I manipulated you to get what I wanted. ”

“Shut up you monstrous bitch!” Dee snaps. She makes toward the door, but Nico steps in front of her, pushing her back down in her seat. 

“A monster, indeed. But what kind? Perhaps you know. Perhaps you have an idea?” Ruby lacquers her spell with more forecul tact, rising off her lounge to close in on Dee. “Tell me about your undead brother…”

“I never said-”

“Stop fighting me, Sweet Dee,” She says, bowing over Dee now. “Tell me what you know him to be.”

“I don’t know!”

Ruby sighs. She lets go. “Maybe you don’t. Well, your brother, do you really care for him? Or can you forget him? Can you put him aside for a better, self-serving cause?”

“I’M GOING TO--” Dee finishes her sentence by unleashing an unholy scream. 

Her awesome rage unleashes, shredding through her body, her face red, sweat bursting from her brow. It’s incredible. Ruby takes several steps back and collapses on her lounge in genuine fright. She watches Dee swipe an arm along the coffee table and smash the glassware on the ground. Then, Dee jumps to her feet and pushes Nico out of the way. Ruby does nothing else to prevent her from leaving, the chaos of Dee disseminating down the hall. 

Mario lifts his bare feet on top of the lounge, wary of the shattered glass, ruined cake and wine all over the floor. “Well, she seems like a bitch.”

Meemo emerges from the kitchen, dabbing a cloth to his sweaty brow. “I agree.”

Ruby meets his eyes. 

“I think she’ll do great,” He says. 

“I would certainly like to see her again,” Ruby says, a little out of breath. “Is it done?”

“It’s done.”

“Well then, will you follow her, darling?”

Meemo tucks the cloth into the pocket of his overalls. “Of course.”

“Plant the seed in her mind to return to me.”

Meemo walks through the sitting room and reaches the front door before being stopped once again by Ruby’s voice. 

“Did you like your cake? I had Nico deliver some to you and your hardworking men.”

She watches Meemo drum the doorframe. He nods briefly, and leaves. 


End file.
